


Too Close to the Sun

by what_the_fel



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types
Genre: Child Fluff, M/M, Mentions of Sex, grown fluff, i don't know if anyone asked for an extremely detailed recount of rommath's life but here it is, jk it's really all downhill from there, maybe someone besides kael will get laid at some point, not me, that's okay rommath has really vivid fantasies to keep him company, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2018-10-10 22:53:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 83,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10449402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_the_fel/pseuds/what_the_fel
Summary: Or, "An Exploration On the Emotions of an Outwardly Emotionless Man."In which Rommath and Kael are the best of friends, until they suddenly aren't. (Featuring unsolicited commentary by Aethas Sunreaver.)





	1. Ashes

**For my Sunshine. This story would've never gotten off the ground without you.**

* * *

It was  _striking_.

A dozen other words came to mind, but Rommath had read that one at breakfast and since set off on a personal quest to find something worthy of the description.

He was certain he'd found it now.

Forty feet of brushed bronze, wrought by the finest hands in all Quel'Thalas. Grand and imposing, a winged beast of legend, jeweled eyes fixed on the sky. The most lifelike god he'd ever seen.

 _Almost_.

The statue was...striking. Rommath hated it immediately.

He hated its beauty, the way its wings stretched up and out as they reached for the horizon. He hated the crowds that clogged up the Walk of Elders, inching closer for a look at their warped reflections in the metal. He hated the pyres that burned at its base—tradition be damned—and he swore if they lasted any longer than the  _Day_ of the Dead, he'd stamp them out. He hated every pretty word they used to dress up the disaster, painting Sunreaver as some poor pitiful fool, as if Rommath hadn't cautioned him—Light, he'd warned him till he was breathless. And he hated—

"Pardon me, milord?"

—having his thoughts interrupted.

"Might I borrow that a moment?" The words were not so much spoken as sniffled, by a hiccuping boy who seemed to have forgotten that it was rude to point. "I-If...if you're not using it, that is…"

Rommath stared at his handkerchief, watching idly as his fingers traced their way along the embroidery. "I am not."

The lad smeared a stray tear across the back of his hand, as if to demonstrate his need. "May I?"

"Be quick about it," he said curtly, shaking out the wrinkles before he offered it to the boy. "Sunreaver's about to give his speech."

The boy nodded his thanks, gave his face a good scrub, and returned the kerchief to its owner, who greeted the gesture with a grimace.

"Hold onto it," Rommath suggested. "Least until it dries."

"Won't you want it during the speech?" he asked.

"No."

The boy gave him a weak smile. "You've never heard Archmage Sunreaver speak, have you?"

The grand magister pursed his lips. He'd had the "fortune" of chaperoning the forlorn mage since he'd arrived back in Silvermoon—just while his home was being restored, Aethas assured them all, but the Sunreaver Estate was more like a palace than a house, in all honesty. And at the rate it was going, Rommath would be babysitting the young archmage for the rest of the foreseeable future.

But had he heard Archmage Sunreaver speak? That was a tricky question.

Whine? Certainly.

Whimper? Definitely.

Sob? No doubt.

Tantrum? Oh, Light—his tantrums were unmatched.

But speak? Aethas had never been particularly quiet, not as long as Rommath had known him, but he'd been suspiciously silent as of late. No honeyed words, no idle banter, no smalltalk just to pass the time.

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure," the grand magister replied.

The boy straightened up, growing a few inches for Rommath to better see his surprise. "Never?" he cried. "Why, he's the best orator you've ever heard! Do you know what that means, milord? It's a new word, I learned it yesterday, and I think it just perfectly describes—"

" _Quiet_ , lad," hissed the woman at his side. "Leave the grand magister be."

He shrank back, glaring balefully at the young lady. "But I've got to—his handkerchief—"

"What do you tell him?" The priestess glanced purposefully at Rommath, who was honestly trying his best not to notice either of them. "Go on, child."

"Sorry, Mister Grand Magister, milord," he said with a sniff.

"Speak clearly." She awarded him with a swat to the ear, as if to encourage him. "And sit up when you do it. You must remember your manners. The front row is no place for naughty boys."

And yet Rommath  _would've_  been seated by Halduron Brightwing, had the brothel not been hosting a two-for-one discount in honor of the holiday.

"Forgive me, sir," the boy told him. "I didn't mean to bother you."

Rommath glanced at the two of them, but he dared not acknowledge them with a reply. Heads were starting to turn, and he didn't want the attention.

"Apologies, Grand Magister," the woman said. "Can't understand a word he says, that accent of his. Shipped here straight from Dalaran after the…" She swallowed stiffly, covering the boy's ears as she mouthed the words over his head: "... _the Purge_."

Rommath resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"He's been placed in the orphanage's custody until the regency tracks down his aunt, the poor lad." She gave an exaggerated sigh, perhaps to make up for Rommath's lacking sympathy. "You'll have to excuse him."

He didn't feel particularly obligated to do so.

"Here's your handkerchief, sir." The boy cast a careful glance over his shoulder, edging a little closer. "You're going to need it," he whispered—low, out of his matron's earshot. "Trust me. They used to say in Dalaran that Archmage Sunreaver could move a statue to tears."

The words were almost lost to Rommath, drowned out by the crowds as they cheered Sunreaver's approach.

 _Almost as loudly as they jeered outside Sunfury Spire the night we brought him home_.

They'd called to see him drawn and quartered in the plaza by dawn, but they seemed to have forgotten their threats now.

Because the commoners loved a victim. Rommath knew this well.

"Thank you." He wore a tight smile behind his cowl, invisible to all but the boy as he leaned lower, close to his eye level. "Don't hold your breath, lad, or you won't see the end of this ceremony."

He wouldn't shed a damned tear.

Aethas, on the other hand, was making no such promises. He started his speech with a sniffle, just shy of a sob, and was silent, waiting for the crowd to follow suit.

"I missed the Fall of Silvermoon…" He didn't sound too appreciative; more ashamed, the way he'd tucked his hands behind his back, staring at the ground like a guilty child coughing up a confession. "I was studying in Dalaran when I got the news. Had just settled in for a long night of research I'd been procrastinating for weeks."

He stopped to survey the crowd, reading their agitated expressions, nodding slowly. It was a bold introduction, but Rommath suspected he'd known that when he'd drafted the speech. Made it that much harder to listen without rolling his eyes.

"I missed the destruction of Dalaran too," he admitted. "I was here, walking these very streets—or the ash and rubble that covered them." His voice cracked this time, but the grand magister was far too cynical to believe he hadn't written that in when he'd gone over his outline. "And everyone just kept telling me how fortunate I was. But I didn't feel fortunate. Just guilty. Kept wishing for a disaster, to ease my conscience, weighed down by survivor's remorse."

Aethas Sunreaver's charisma seemed to have survived the Purge.  _Thank the Light_.

His decency, on the other hand—Rommath thought that was up for debate. It took twice the daily recommended dose of Sunreaver's usual audacity to compare the "situation in Dalaran," as they'd taken to calling it, to the Fall of Silvermoon. Or Dalaran's own demise, for that matter.

Rommath had arrived just in time for the peak of the Purge. It hadn't been pretty, not in any sense of the word. Indeed, it'd been quite ugly—he wasn't a huge fan of the city's renovations, if he was quite honest. And then there was Lady Proudmoore. But it wasn't "Fall of Silvermoon" ugly. It wasn't "bodies in the streets" or "an entire skyline flattened to dust" ugly, or "air too thick with smoke and screams so why bother breathing" ugly.

But Sunreaver hadn't seen Silvermoon's spires sink to the ground, and most of Silvermoon hadn't seen Silver Covenant soldiers chase down scared civilians like some sick fox hunt. And because neither knew more than the stories of survivors, the fools believed each other.

Rommath was glad for them, truly. Somewhere beneath his scarlet cowl, he was grateful they'd managed to keep their ignorance intact.

But he'd seen Silvermoon in ruins, and he'd seen Dalaran flat and desolate. He'd been a captive in the dungeons, and he'd howled himself hoarse down there in the dark. And he could safely say that he'd have a lot more pity for Magister Sunreaver if he didn't already supply enough of his own.

Or perhaps if people would quit calling him "Magister" Sunreaver.

Rommath had half a mind to tell him too, once he was finished straightening out his  _own_  self-pity.

So not today, in all likelihood. Today was reserved for brooding and bitter thoughts.

His specialty.

And he was so talented, it seemed, that he'd missed out on the core of Sunreaver's speech.  _Tragic_ _._

Probably better for his mood, though, because the archmage was wrapping up his address with a voice hushed with reverence, and Rommath was already feeling nauseous.

"—as the light of a flame burns bright in the darkest of night," Aethas was saying, "so too shall we shine our brightest in these dark times!" A blast of heat bowled over the audience, chasing away the chill of morning as the pyres licked higher, burning bolder at the archmage's behest. "And once more, everyone shall see—our spirits shall not be trampled."

And it seemed he'd packed a little piece of Dalaran's theatrics when they'd fled the city through its plumbing.  _How fortunate._

"Once more—" Sunreaver grew uncharacteristically quiet, pausing as he waited for the noise to dim. "Once more, we shall rise from the ashes, born anew."

He held his pose for a moment—triumphant and proud, arms raised skyward to match that beautiful bronze phoenix that stood behind him—and when he'd had his fill of adoration, stepped aside for the regent lord.

Lor'themar Theron had been silent thus far. Saving his voice, he always said, but Rommath had sat to the right of Lor'themar at dozens of ceremonies just like this one. Dozens too many to be fooled by Theron's used and reused reasons, or his threadbare smiles. He didn't want to be here any more than Rommath did.

He smoothed out his tunic, shaking his head as he stood to take Sunreaver's place on stage. "Well," the regent lord muttered, just loud enough for the front row to hear. "Don't know how I'm supposed to follow that." He gave Aethas a passing pat on the shoulder as they traded spots, vaguely reminiscent of his ranger days, and eyed the sooty smudges left behind the archmage's display. "How about another round of applause for Magister Sunreaver?"

Rommath clapped all of three times and hugged his arms against his chest, letting his scowl sink back beneath his cowl as Aethas took the empty seat to his left.

For a moment, Sunreaver was mercifully silent, staring straight ahead as Lor'themar began to address the crowd—sugarcoated words and promises of retribution as their armies set off for the shores of the Isle of Thunder. But just a blink and a breath later, the archmage was frowning at him in that way of his, how he always did before he spoke.

In retrospect, Rommath thought he shouldn't have been so optimistic. He should've known better by now.

"Are you pouting, Grand Magister?" Aethas asked, craning his neck to peer over Rommath's collar. "It's a bit unbecoming, don't you think?"

"Sulking," he corrected him.

Sunreaver furrowed his brow. "You didn't like the speech?"

"The crowd certainly seemed to think it was something." Rommath's gaze flickered back to the lad on his right, who had nearly fallen out of his seat in at least three separate attempts to catch a glimpse of "Magister" Sunreaver. "The fires were...unexpected."

Aethas grinned like someone who hadn't just seen the slaughter of the organization bearing his name might've grinned. "It was a spur of the moment decision," he explained. "I thought it was a nice touch."

"Whoever gets the privilege of scrubbing the scorch marks off the stage might not agree," said Rommath.

The redhead's smile fell flat. "You didn't like it."

"I can't imagine where you got an idea like that," he muttered.

Sunreaver scowled. Rommath would've pointed out pouting was "a bit unbecoming," as Aethas had so eloquently phrased it, but he didn't want to borrow the archmage's words at this particular moment.

"Well," he said with a huff, "you are once again outnumbered by the popular opinion."

The grand magister pursed his lips, an invisible frown. "Did you see the placard?"

"What?"

"The placard," Rommath repeated. "At the base of the statue."

Aethas narrowed his eyes at the bronze phoenix, as if he hoped to read it from where he sat. "I haven't gotten the chance yet."

It wasn't easy to believe, but the glimmer of curiosity in the redhead's eyes spoke for his honesty.

"'Dedicated to those fallen at the hands of injustice,'" Rommath recited. "'May you walk in the light of a thousand suns.'"

The archmage shrugged a shoulder, tugging anxiously at the wrinkles in his robes—still black as coal, nearly a month after the Purge. Sunreaver mourned like a widow.

"It's a nice sentiment, isn't it?" Rommath asked, lower than a whisper.

Aethas pricked a copper brow, more shocked than surprised by the looks. "You think so?"

"A little late," he said, "but that's Thalassian bureaucracy for you. Can't get anything done on time around here."

"Three weeks isn't so bad," Aethas whispered back. "Why, when my father was the—"

"A decade," the grand magister interrupted, giving him a black stare. Black as those robes. "Or something close, by my reckoning."

Sunreaver turned an alarming shade of red—humiliation, Rommath hoped, but it looked more like anger, especially the way his lips were pressed together. "Nine years."

"And three months and twenty-two days." Rommath had a knack for dates that came in handy from time to time. "But I'm glad to know you're keeping track too."

Sunreaver swung his gaze back to the stage, applauding with the rest of the audience as Lor'themar moved on to more trivial topics—talk of holidays, festivities, parades, parties, feasts, more parties. "Well, Grand Magister," he said coolly, "nine years and three months and twenty-two days is a long time to hold onto a petty grudge."

Rommath's fingers clenched around his handkerchief—it'd just started to dry, but if he could make Aethas Sunreaver cry, he thought it was worth seeing it soaked all over again. But for all his seething, the worst he could come up with was, "You'll have to excuse me."

At least Aethas didn't look satisfied when he left.

He'd never been particularly fast, but he tried his best to make his way out of the crowd in a hurry. It took him a good twenty minutes to escape the Walk of Elders, but his thoughts had drifted so quick he might as well have opened up a portal right from his seat.

He kept his shoulders hunched, expression hidden behind his cowl, leaving just a set of vacant eyes to broadcast his mood. The grand magister was starting to feel a little too close to his old self, and he didn't need him here. He would've hated him too.

Light, he needed to get away from people. He needed to get away from cheering commoners and fidgety orphans and melancholy "magisters."

"Surround yourself with sad people and there's no doubt you'll end up in the same sorry state," the prince used to tell him. His favorite words, when they were young, because Rommath had been a pathetic child too. "Better to stick with people who are always happy, if you're looking for a role model."

But he'd yet to find any people like that since he last heard those words.

He needed to get away from the grand magister; he'd dig Rommath out from somewhere underneath and pull him up into perspective—just for a few moments, he'd put him back before anyone else could see.

Reminisce, ruminate, meditate.

And then he'd straighten his robes, sink back into his cowl, and he'd be the grand magister once more. Cold and impersonal, but calculating, and ruthlessly effective.

His leg was aching by the time he'd reached the Court of the Sun. Either he'd been walking quicker than he meant to, or there was a storm on the horizon. Perhaps both.

Of course, he would've expected a more...traditional storm, one with gray skies and thunderheads spitting rain and hail. Not a chaotic whirlwind of emotions—the distinct pattern of words he'd come to associate closely with none other than Aethas Sunreaver.

Rommath jumped at the sound of his name, too close, too loud, and almost foreign to his ears. "Grand Magister," he corrected, clutching tightly to his staff.

Sunreaver effectively ignored him. "You all right, old man?"

" _Grand Magister_." He spoke the words with distaste, let them roll off his tongue with a grimace. "I'm hardly an old man, nor do I intend to be for quite a while."

"Your staff gets more use as a walking stick than a weapon," Aethas informed him.

Rommath narrowed his eyes and bit back a few choice words on Sunreaver's own maturity, hobbling his way toward a bench instead, the one with the best view of the fountain—he knew. "Just the weather. Not good for the joints."

"Arthritis?" Aethas asked, taking a seat beside him. "You're not making a very good case for yourself, old man."

"Old injuries," he said tersely. "Can I help you?"

Sunreaver pursed his lips. "I think perhaps you've got it backwards."

"Can you help me?" Rommath gave a laugh, caustic and short. "I think I'm beyond help. Or so I've heard."

"Well, everyone was staring at me like it was my fault you bolted," Aethas snapped. "I had to do something. It made me look bad."

Rommath raised a brow, unimpressed.

"And, ah…" He fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve for a moment, looking away on three separate occasions before he finally managed to hold Rommath's gaze. "Lor'themar was talking about the Bell again," he added. "I figured I was already pretty well-acquainted with the situation. Didn't need to sit through it with all those people glaring daggers at my back."

Rommath stared straight ahead, watching the water dance and shimmer in the cold morning light.

"Thought we could bond over it," he said with a hollow grin.

"Beg your pardon?"

"Thought you might have some advice, or something." Aethas shrugged, following Rommath's gaze to the fountain. "How to find peace with...ah,  _that many people_  hating you...and all that."

"I beg your pardon?"

"What's the secret, hm?"

"I don't know what you mean," Rommath said stiffly. "Most of Silvermoon seems to think—"

"—that you're not to be trusted?" Aethas finished for him. "I think I'm starting to know the feeling."

Rommath stared flatly at him. "—that you're the second coming of Dath'Remar," he said. "Pray tell, Sunreaver, how is this helping me?"

"Oh, that's right!" he said, straightening up. "Well, that was my original intention. But then I saw you standing in the middle of the court, all alone and holding onto your staff like it was your dying breath, and I wondered if perhaps we could help each other. How's that sound?"

"Does it look like I'm in need of help?" Rommath asked.

"Well, you were just standing there for a good ten minutes, staring off into space," said the archmage. "You only blinked twice, I swear. I was worried you'd had a stroke."

Rommath felt like insisting, once again, that he  _wasn't_  old, but he didn't expect it to do him much good. "I needed a moment."

Aethas nodded, silent for one sweet, merciful moment of bliss. "Why here?"

"The weather," he repeated, flat and monotone. Not a lie; Rommath called them half-truths. "It's cold and damp. Makes my leg ache."

"Ah, yes," said Sunreaver with a smirk. "The cold, aggravating your 'old injuries.'" He laughed, quite pleased with his humor. "Try giving a speech with the grand magister watching, hm? You don't know cold until you've faced that frigid glare."

A joke, Rommath was certain, but it stung all the same. "Don't flatter me, Sunreaver," he said flatly.

"I'm being dead-honest," he insisted. "There's ice water in his veins. That man's heart is a glacier."

"I'm not cold," he told him, quiet and contemplative. "Just bitter, that's all."

"Fine," Aethas agreed. "No ice water. Just vinegar."

Rommath peered over the edge of the fountain, watching his reflection ripple in the glassy water. He supposed it must've looked that way, from the outside. But he knew his veins ran rich and red, because those words drew blood.

But Aethas was still chuckling somewhere in his periphery, and the grand magister's scowl had stayed the same. If anything, the glacier was on the outside; he wore it like armor.

"—but I was scared of the decorations, so we never properly celebrated the holiday. My family wasn't all that interested in traditions anyhow," Aethas was saying now, unaware that Rommath wasn't listening—or maybe just unconcerned. "So the first time I ever really saw a  _proper_  Day of the Dead was in Dal—"

"Was the monument your idea?" the grand magister asked suddenly, giving the story a swift death.

Aethas blinked, startled by the interruption. "No, it wasn't," he admitted, freckled cheeks tinged pink. "But they asked my approval, and I gave it."

"Hm." He tilted his head to the side, considering this. "Odd that no one asked  _my_  approval. Being the grand magister and all."

"Rommath."

 _Grand Magister_ , he corrected silently.

"Don't be childish." Ironic, considering Sunreaver's frown was looking more and more like a petulant pout by the second. "There wasn't much point in asking. They had to have known you'd say no."

"And why shouldn't I?" he asked, glaring over the rim of his cowl. "I didn't get a memorial for my trip to Dalaran's dungeons, nor did anyone I saw down there."

Aethas turned a loud shade of red, all the way to the tips of his ears, and apparently thought he should raise his voice to match. "They didn't die down there, Rommath," he spat.

"Then where are they?" He sat up to scan the clearing, but the Court of the Sun was still empty; they were the only ones. "Everyone I knew or cared about is gone too, and all they have to honor their memory are a few decrepit statues of Kael'thas that the commoners petition to tear down every year."

"As well they should," Aethas hissed. "They're a plight on this city."

Rommath's knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on his staff. "He was our prince," he said lowly.

"Yes," said Aethas, and his voice was no less kind, "then he was a delusional vessel of the Burning Legion who laid waste to his own city." He hesitated a moment. "A monster."

Rommath shook his head—not a protest, just a helpless gesture. "Maybe he was," he said, quiet now, as his temper began to cool. "But I couldn't ever see it. They called him a fright, there at the end, but he just looked frightened, to me."

Aethas was silent.  _Light be praised_.

"He had the fountain commissioned," Rommath said distantly. The foundation was all that was left of the original—cracked marble and a rust-colored ring around the base—but they'd gotten around to restoring the fountain with the rest of the city. "Wanted Silvermoon to feel more like home. He adored the one in Dalaran."

Aethas chewed his lip, looking a bit tense. "Yeah. It was beautiful."

"The whole city was," Rommath said softly, as if someone else might possibly hear.

"You lived there a while?" he asked.

"Eleven years? Twelve?" He paused to check his math, then confirmed it with a nod. "Eleven. Moved there when I was eight."

"You know…" Aethas stretched and settled back in his seat. "I'd bet you have some magnificent tales to tell."

Rommath lifted a brow. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"

The redhead crinkled his nose and gave him his best nonchalant shrug, though the smirk seemed a little flat. "Everyone I knew and cared about is gone too," he said. "Tell me a story, old man."

"A story?" he asked, shrinking back into his cowl. "I—I wouldn't even know where to begin—"

"The beginning," Aethas suggested. "You were eight."

"Ah." Rommath swallowed, suddenly self-conscious. "Yes, eight. That was the year my brother died and my mother left," he explained. "So it was just Father and me. Which, in a way, means it was just me, I guess…" He glanced at Aethas, watching warily for any trace of judgment, but the archmage kept his expression blank. "We got there just around dawn, I remember, because the sky was lavender woven with gold, and I told my father it seemed fitting, but I don't really think he cared."


	2. -I-

_-I-_

At the time, the boy thought nothing of it. His father simply had not heard; the words were merely lost to him, swallowed up by the bells' last peal, tolling five as the man led his son up the steps.

Falconwing Square was silent at this hour, frozen by the dawnlight—nature's favorite paralytic. Silvermoon City was still sleeping, all except the bells and the birdsongs, but the boy could hear the faint hum of arcane as he hobbled after his father, taking the stairs one by one.

The portalmasters never slept—that's what his father had told him, when his father had still told him things.

Rommath wasn't quite sure how such a feat was possible, but if he had to wager a guess, it probably had to do with a potion particularly popular amongst the young magi, dubbed "Portalmaster's Poison" by those less familiar with the art of alchemy—young magi, for example. Pure, potent, triple-refined mana: it was like a sip of the Sunwell, except that it tasted like sweat. According to a handful of anecdotes his father had told him, leastways, when his father had still told him things.

"Quickly, Rommath," was about as close as he got now. "They'll be busy once the morning rush hits."

"Yes, Father," he murmured, dutiful as ever.

The man didn't seem to hear that either.

Rommath's stare never left the ground. He didn't figure he really needed to see his path; his father's heels would do just fine. And two of his fingers, for good measure, which the boy had clutched tightly to his chest since they'd left their front porch, right up until they reached the doorway to the portalmasters' enclave.

He didn't suppose it was much of a doorway at all, as it was lacking anything remotely resembling a door; only a curtain, sheer and blue like woven sapphire. But his father didn't pause to appreciate its beauty. He pinched the fabric between two fingers and held it aside for Rommath to enter, eyes level as he stared ahead.

The boy headed in headfirst and hesitant, as always, surveying his surroundings before he stepped inside. His first impression was a dazzling flash of light—arcane discharge from a collapsed portal, he realized, though not soon enough to spare his dignity, as he'd promptly squealed and buried his face in his father's tunic before the revelation even hit him.

The portalmasters didn't look up from their work; three of them were shelving books, two were scribbling furiously at scrolls, and one knelt at the center of the room, already sketching out the skeleton of a portal rune on the floor in chalk. None seemed concerned with Rommath.

For that, he was grateful. He figured he'd have gotten a quick cuff to the ear if he'd interrupted them.

As it were, his father just looked on. "Narinth?"

The woman didn't take her eyes off the rune, only pausing to tuck a loose wisp of hair behind her ear. "Milord?" she asked. "Where're you heading?"

"Dalaran," said Rommath's father.

"Thank the Light," said Narinth. "Just had a woman ask for a portal to Stormwind, not even ten minutes ago. Can't imagine what the hell she wants to do all the way out there, but that's not my business—I just make her trip a little quicker. Nice to have a closer destination, now. I'm exhausted." Her gaze flitted between them, almost as quickly as she spoke. "Transit for two?"

"Just the boy."

Rommath froze. "Father?"

The woman had finished her work, and with a word, she breathed life into the spell. A gust of wind was its first cry, as the runes pulsed like a heartbeat on the floor below, and the air began to warp and wriggle as a hole opened up in the space between them, like a window straight to Dalaran.

" _Father_ ," Rommath tried again.

The man didn't seem to hear him at all; he was smiling politely at Narinth, handing her the fare, turning back, heading for the door—

"You'll meet Telestra at the fountain, understood?" he asked, angling his gaze to meet his son's. "There are directions in your front pocket, left side. Carry our name well, boy."

Rommath swallowed, or made his best effort. His throat felt too tight, barely big enough for a breath.

"Don't forget to give her that coinpurse," he reminded him.

And with that, he was gone.

Rommath was alone in the room, save for the portalmasters, who might as well have been specters.

"It's not going to stay open forever," Narinth warned. She was sitting back on her heels now, draining a vial of liquid mana. "Don't be afraid. It's just like walking through a door."

Walking through a portal  _was_  a bit like walking through a doorway, Rommath had found, just a lot more disorienting. One got the sense they'd left a piece of themselves behind. It took about ten seconds for his thoughts to follow, crashing back into his corporeal form with enough force to knock him flat.

It must've been a common sight amongst portalmasters—if the smirk on the figure in front of him was any indicator, anyway. "You're going to want to move in about a second," said a vaguely masculine voice.

Rommath blinked twice and the shadow had become human, bearded and broad, but if the man spoke the truth, he guessed he didn't have much time to stand there and admire him. He stumbled forward into a scene that was still taking shape around him, stepping past the runes that shimmered beneath his shoes.

"First time?" the man asked Rommath. "Can always tell a first-timer. They got a look about 'em. Like they landed headfirst or something."

It was Rommath's third portal, but he didn't think he ought to say so.

The human was looking past him—not unlike most people—sipping at a narrow flask as he watched the portal stretch and grow. "Make yourself scarce, boy. Got three coming in from Caer Darrow."

Rommath's shoulders shuddered as he took a breath, pumping his lungs up to about double their capacity to give the whole city of Dalaran the impression that he was five pounds heavier and twice as brave as he really was. Unfortunately, he spent most of that breath on a "thank you" that was somewhere between Common and Thalassian and the awkward "goodbye" that followed, so by the time he made it to the exit, he was scrawny and shaking once more.

The sky was silvery-white with undertones of some color too bright to identify, like the prelude to an arcane spell, and Rommath was scared of the sun. He felt singled out by its glare, with his dark hair and his dark clothes and his dark shoes, like he was the only object in this entire marble city that the lukewarm light didn't touch, save maybe his shadow.

White steps led to white sidewalks that ran up against white buildings, streaked with veins of rose and capped with golden spires. And there he was, sticking out on the stairs.

"'Scuse me, lad," said a woman passing. "Might not want to block the way."

Startled out of his stupor, Rommath eased his way down the steps, stopping short to fish his father's instructions out of his robes. Except he must not have been as safe as he'd initially thought, because he'd only gotten as far as " _take a left when_ " before three raucous men—more like bears than any human he'd met—barrelled into him.

Rommath guessed they'd just come from Caer Darrow.

He knew the note was gone before he knew he was sprawled across the cobblestones, and by the time he realized the latter, he was too winded to do anything about it. Too crippled to chase it down, too scared to cry out for help, too frightened to breathe without sobbing. Couldn't even stand the right way, it seemed. At that particular moment, the boy was convinced that he couldn't do  _anything_  correctly, except maybe watch as his directions floated southbound on the breeze, fluttering all lopsided like a broken-winged butterfly.

But he had to get up. He always got up, even when he didn't really feel like it.

As soon as he'd recovered enough air to fully support his shoulders, Rommath sat upright, pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, told himself he  _would not_  cry, and went about collecting his books. His pants were torn at the knees and he was almost certain he was bleeding, but his coinpurse was still intact, fastened tight to his belt, so he supposed he would live.

His father's handwriting had said to take a left, so that was just what he did. He stared at his shoes and hummed a hymn beneath his breath in case the Light was feeling favorable enough to show him some mercy. And if it wasn't, well, it was his mother's favorite, and it made him feel a little brighter, at the very least.

Now, it probably had  _less_  to do with mercy and miracles and  _more_  to do with Dalaran's smart layout, but as it happened, the fountain's central location made it quite easy to find. By the time Rommath made it there, he didn't really care which it was. He was just glad to have somewhere to rest while he waited for Telestra, who seemed to be running quite late.

The fountain's ledge was narrow, and Rommath didn't trust himself to lean too far back without falling in, but he stole glances whenever he could, just to catch a glimpse of the dazzling display: beneath the ripples lay a myriad of coins—copper, silver, even a couple scattered gold. No one had told the boy the Dalaran Fountain was a treasure trove.

Perhaps it was a secret. The boy loved secrets. He decided this was his favorite spot in all of Dalaran.

This lasted about three minutes.

Then someone started talking.

"I don't think you really need a coin to make a wish."

The first time Rommath saw him, he was staring down the sun. It didn't seem to faze him in the least.

"I think it's just a rumor," the boy continued, fidgeting with his robes. "Bet it got started by the beggar who comes to collect all the "wishes" on Wednesdays. That's what I think."

Rommath swallowed and looked away, tracking a cloud with his gaze.

For a blessed moment, the boy was quiet.

And then, "Nice weather we're having, isn't it?" He was squinting a little, lashes glowing gold in the sunlight. "Not too chilly. Hope it stays this warm."

Rommath did not feel "warm." He felt as though he'd found himself on the wrong end of a frost spell. Worse, he couldn't figure out why. The whole city felt like it'd undergone some mishap with an ice rune.

"Quiet, too," the boy added.

Silently, Rommath agreed; when his teeth stopped chattering, he supposed it was.

"Are you waiting for someone?"

Rommath stared harder at his cloud. It was drifting dangerously close to his company, like the hand of fate simply insisted their gazes meet. But it was probably just the wind.

But whether clouds or curiosity were to blame, the boy had turned to face Rommath, one brow cocked in a frown. "You some kind of mute or something?"

Startled, Rommath opened his mouth to answer, or maybe gasp, but he did neither. Just shook his head instead.

"That's not very convincing," the boy pointed out.

"I-I'm not!" Rommath insisted.

His self-appointed companion grinned. "Not a mute, or not waiting for someone?"

Rommath thought that was a stupid question. He shrugged helplessly, staring at his lap.

"What's the matter, hm? You afraid of me?" The boy edged closer. "I'm very nice, you know," he informed him. "Most everyone likes me. Except my brothers, sometimes, but that's just how brothers are."

Rommath nodded, the best reply he'd managed thus far.

"Do you have brothers?" asked the boy, nudging him gently.

Rommath had a dead brother, which was still a brother as far as he was concerned, but he couldn't figure out how to fit this into three words or less, so he settled on a simple shake of his head.

"Well," he told him, "you'll just have to take my word for it then."

Again, Rommath nodded. He thought he was getting better at it.

"I'm not scary." The boy thrust a mittened hand at him, grinning with all his teeth—dull teeth, at that, no fangs or tusks to speak of. "I'm Kael'thas Sunstrider. Most everyone calls me Kael, except when I'm in trouble. Who're you?"

Apparently Rommath's thoughts were still operating on a delay, because the only thing he could think to say back was, "... _Prince_  Kael'thas Sunstrider...?"

He could see the resemblance when the boy laughed: that was a Sunstrider smile, and the hair that floated in the wind to frame it was spun gold. His eyes might've been a dead giveaway—bottle-glass blue, just like the portraits of his forefathers—if he could've just quit rolling them every time he looked Rommath's way.

"No," he told him, " _I'm_  Kael'thas Sunstrider. I wanted to know  _your_  name. That's how introductions work."

"Should I bow?" Rommath blurted.

Kael laughed even harder at that. "That's not necessary," he said, shaking his head. "I'm third in line for the throne anyhow. I don't pull rank." He considered this for a fraction of a moment. "Unless I want something, I suppose. I might do it right now if you won't tell me your name."

"Rommath," said Rommath. He offered his hand in return, but the prince no longer seemed interested.

"You're  _the_  Rommath?"

Rommath didn't know of any other Rommaths, so he supposed he was " _the_  Rommath."

"The one Telestra's been going on about?" Kael exclaimed. "Are you the new apprentice?"

Rommath exhaled pure relief. "You know Telestra?" he asked. "Do you know where she is?"

"Sleeping with the shades closed, when I left," said the little prince. "But I bet she's awake now!" He was grinning, like he'd been born a court jester and not an heir. "Or if she isn't, she's sure to be when I tell her you're here!"

"She will?" he asked, hesitant.

"Oh, certainly!" The boy was on his feet and across the street in an instant—so quickly Rommath couldn't be sure if he'd teleported there or run on his own two feet, nor did he have the time to consider it, really. "Are you coming? She'll be  _so_  excited to meet you!"

* * *

At first glance, it seemed Kael was exaggerating.

Telestra was a tall woman, with hair so pale it looked silver in the shadows and a lean to her gait that suggested there might've been more than coffee in that mug of hers. It never left her lips, so Rommath couldn't be sure, but he didn't think there was a smile hiding behind the ceramic.

"Good to see you back in one piece, Kael'thas," she greeted him from the doorway. "Who's this, now?"

"Rommath," Kael announced. "He's not a mute. But he might be a cripple."

Rommath was not a cripple. He'd told the prince twice on the walk there, but he'd given up after that.

"Pleasure to meet you, Rommath." Telestra turned on her heel, swaying as she walked. "Kael'thas. You're late."

" _Late_?" Kael cried, indignant. "Lessons haven't even begun!"

Telestra had vanished less than a few crooked paces into her crooked tower, like the darkness had simply gobbled her up the way it did in nightmares. "Well, I didn't plan on teaching myself," her voice echoed from within. "Quickly, now."

Rommath had learned it was best not to hesitate when presented with a direct order. However, the boy found the dark, like most things, a little daunting.

Kael, on the other hand, trotted up the steps as if there was nothing to fear, only stopping to throw a glance over his shoulder. "You coming?" he asked.

Rommath peered past him, tracing his gaze along the cracks that webbed the tower's stonework, as if he expected it to crumble on top of them at any moment.

"It's not as scary as it looks," the prince said, as if he'd read his thoughts. "She keeps the light dim because she drinks too much wine, that's all." He held out a hand, ready to pull Rommath up the stairs if he had to. "I was frightened too. I made my brother hold me."

Rommath didn't think he would make Kael hold him, but he took his hand anyhow, letting the prince lead him along by the sleeve. From the inside, the tower looked less like a home and more like a dungeon, with its bare walls and its bare floors and its bare ceilings, barely visible at all by the light of a few dying sconces. The boy stumbled on blindly, clutching tight to his bookstrap with one hand and the prince with the other, until the very moment he saw light again.

"This is the sitting room." Telestra made an absent gesture to the mismatched chairs at the opposite end of the room, situated at a desk just long enough for them to share. "You'll be staying in the loft. Kael will show you there, if you want to drop off your belongings before we—is that all you brought…?"

Rommath stared at his feet; he didn't think he could've carried more books than the four he'd packed. But of course, she must have been referring to the gold. Disentangling himself from the prince, Rommath worked the coinpurse free from his belt and presented it to her, quite pleased when he imagined the less-than-disappointed look on his father's face.

Telestra seemed confused. Or curious. Or concerned. Or maybe that was just the natural placement of her eyebrows.

"From my father," Rommath tried, lifting the coinpurse a little higher. His shoulder was beginning to ache.

"He's already paid your tuition for this season," she told him, waving Rommath away.

Rommath was feeling significantly less pleased with himself. "B-But...he told me…"

"Your knuckles are chapped," Telestra noted. "Where are your gloves, boy?"

He inspected his hands, shrugging.

"He was freezing his ass off the whole way here," Kael informed her. "He asked me how to stop his breath from making clouds."

Rommath might've blushed, were his cheeks not every bit as chapped as his knuckles.

But Telestra just smoothed his hair back from his face and patted his cheek. "We'll get you fitted for a coat after dinner, all right?" she said. It wasn't a suggestion, rather a statement of fact. "Kael can help you pick out a scarf and some mittens. You won't survive winter without them."

He nodded obediently.

"Go set your stuff down so you can duel Kael'thas," she added, nudging him toward the desk.

He nodded obediently, twice as hard this time. It was only when he'd set his books aside and turned around to face them that he actually processed her words. "Wait—what?"

"As this is your first lesson," said Telestra, "we will begin with a test of your abilities. Would you say this is unfair?"

Rommath didn't think he could've said anything, at that exact moment.

Telestra made a motion, no more than a flick of her wrist, murmuring a spell that had no effects as far as Rommath could see. "There," she said. "I've placed a ward around you that will keep you from harming each other. And more importantly, my furniture." She paused, glancing between the two. "Ready?"

Eyes wide and jaw unhinged, Rommath glanced between Telestra and the prince, who had already readied a crackling ball of fire in his palm.

He was no authority on Thalassian law, but it seemed safe to assume that attacking the prince—for any reason, tests of ability included—could have him executed on grounds of treason.

"You're lucky I'm here," Kael told him. "I had to duel  _her_  when I first got here." He pointed to Telestra with the hand that wasn't wreathed in flames.

"You may duel me instead," Telestra offered, "if it'll make you more comfortable."

Rommath shook his head. He'd have been "more comfortable" if he didn't have to duel anyone.

"Very well." She stepped back, leaning against the far wall where she could watch from a distance. "Begin."

The last syllable was swallowed up by a roar of flame as Kael's firebolt hurtled by, close enough to blacken Rommath's hair, if not for Telestra's wards, and perhaps the fact that his hair came that way. The heat was blistering, but left no scorch marks as far as he could see.

The next was even hotter, and Rommath could feel Telestra's spell beginning to fade with the impact of another fireball, this one knocking him back and leaving him breathless.

Rommath was ready for the third attack, dodging the flames that erupted from one of Kael's hands and blocking the ball of ice that came from the other with a basic counter-spell. Trying his hand at the offensive, he tossed a burst of arcane at Kael, which the prince deflected with ease. He had no more luck with the frost spell that slammed into Telestra's wall, shaking the tower but leaving no mark on the stones behind Kael.

A volatile sphere of fire swirled in Rommath's hand, a bit bigger than he'd intended and a bit more than he could control. When it flew from his fingers, it didn't hit Kael where he'd expected it to, but it seemed that it didn't hit Kael where Kael had expected it to either, and when the prince tried to duck beneath it, it hit him full in the face, knocking him back several steps.

Rommath froze, certain he had just earned himself capital punishment. "I'm so sorry!" he blurted, covering his mouth as he gaped at the prince. "I didn't mean to—"

Kael emerged a bit flushed—unharmed, though reasonably flustered. He made good use of Rommath's hesitation, hurling a fireball in either direction to trap him against the wall.

The waves of flame came at Rommath quicker than the Great Sea at high tide during a thunderstorm, unrelenting—until he had no breath in his lungs to deflect the spells and no room left to dodge them.

The ward was fading quickly, and Rommath could soon feel the flames licking at his face, dangerously close to searing his skin. Just when he could smell the tips of his hair smoldering and the hems of his sleeves starting to singe, Telestra ended it.

"Enough," she told them, keeping her expression even. "Excellent work. Sit."

Rommath didn't feel very excellent at all, just flushed and breathless and defeated, but he did as he was told, retreating back to the desk.

The flames that flickered at Kael's fingertips died away, but Rommath still flinched when the prince held out his hand. Not an attack, just a gesture of good sportsmanship. Rommath shook it effortlessly; his hands were always shaking.

"Your stance is improving, Kael," she said, sipping at her drink, "but you could do with a little control. If that were an actual battle, you would've lit everything on fire. Yourself included."

Rommath grew visibly smaller when Telestra turned to him.

"Worry less." Her eyes were kind, but her words were sharp, and they struck him like steel. "Fight a bit more with your brain and less with your mind. Does that make sense?"

Rommath wanted to nod, to prove that he understood something, that he had at least some purpose for being here, but he hadn't the slightest idea what she meant. "No," he answered quietly, laying his head on the desk. "I don't understand."

"Then listen carefully," she told him. "You've been blessed with both a brain and a mind. What does this mean?"

"I…" It was an idle sound, dying away in his throat as he searched for an answer. "I don't know the difference."

"Well, they're equally important." Telestra conjured up an orb of ice, spinning it in her palm as the boy watched, rapt. "Your mind is your intellect. Your thoughts, your opinions, and to an extent,  _you_."

Without a word, she flicked the frostbolt at Kael, who hardly managed to dodge it without toppling his chair, muttering a few choice swears as he smoothed out his composure.

"Language, Kael'thas," she warned. "If I see you writing on my desk again, I won't miss.  _Pay attention_."

The prince rolled his eyes, but they were back on Telestra before she could fire off another spell.

The woman watched with smirking satisfaction. "Were you looking, Rommath, or should I demonstrate again?"

Rommath nodded until he thought his head might fall off, in hopes that it might translate into an answer that didn't involve lobbing frostbolts at his classmate.

"Good. Kael'thas gave us quite a fine example of the  _brain's_  work. Your brain is your more... _primitive_  self, so to speak. Needs, instincts, or—as you saw—reflexes." She wiped her hands on her robes, smiling at the prince. "Thank you, Kael'thas."

Brows drawn and lips pinched, Rommath thought on this. "I've got to decide which, then?" he asked. "When I can rely on reflex alone or when I'll have to use a little cunning?"

"Excellent," said Telestra, offering up a half a smile. "You are a mage, and your mind is your weapon, but you must learn when to stop sitting idly by and  _thinking_  about what you should do and when to just  _do_  it. And that doesn't just apply to sorcery and magic."

Rommath nodded eagerly, a smile tugging at his lips as he began to understand.

"Enough of that, though." The woman waved a dismissive hand, her tone becoming less explanatory and more businesslike. "Let us begin. Kael'thas was supposed to be tested on his arcane spells this morning, but seeing as Rommath wasn't given any spells to practice yesterday or the day before, the test will have to be postponed, for I fully intend to hold you both to the same standards." Her gaze flickered between the boys, eyes narrowing when they lingered on Kael. "I doubt you practiced them anyway."

The prince frowned, looking as if he wanted to protest, but he said nothing instead.

"Let us begin with something simple, which I'm sure you both have studied tirelessly by this point."

A glassy sphere of ice hovered in her palm, reforming itself each time she so much as twitched a finger. Kael flinched every time.

"Warding spells, like the ones you saw earlier, are debatably the oldest applications of arcane magic," she told them. "Before young mages can learn how to fight, they must learn how to defend, correct? So they can spare themselves the humiliation of ducking under any hapless frostbolts that happen to come their way. And so they can protect themselves in the future, if they ever get into another… _duel_ , hm?"

After today, Rommath had come to the decision that he never wanted to fight with anyone for the rest of his life.

Kael glanced at him, elegant features twisted in a frown. "I'd rather we not do any more dueling of any sort," he whispered, "if you don't mind."

Rommath nodded quickly. "Never again."

The prince offered his hand one last time, and they shook on it. "Deal."


	3. -II-

_-II-_

"I remember the cold." Aethas' gaze had glazed over, aimed at nothing in particular—nostalgia, plain and pure. " _Hated_ it."

"Saw my first blizzard within a couple days," Rommath said idly. "And found out that Telestra's roof had a nice big hole above my bed. Kael insisted we trade spots, but he'd had enough of that after a couple nights and started sleeping at the foot of my bed instead." He scratched at his brow as he sifted through the memories, faded with age. "Kael loved the snow, said it was 'the most wonderful thing that existed,' and Telestra was a creature of cold blood herself, but I didn't take well to the weather."

"Those joints of yours?" Sunreaver asked, grinning.

Rommath nodded. "Telestra taught from the attic, some days, because I couldn't even make it down the ladder," he told him. "Not that I ever had an easy time with it. But between the cold and a very rational fear of heights, I just sort of...froze up."

Aethas seemed to think that was precious. Or he just liked to stick his lip out that way, for the fun of it. " _Really_?" he cooed. " _You_? The Grand Magister of Quel'Thalas?  _You_  were afraid of heights?"

The grand magister wore his most impressive deadpan. " _Am_ ," he corrected.

"Bullshit." Sunreaver scoffed and shook his head. "I don't believe that for a second. I watched you jump out of Dalaran's sewer system onto the back of a passing dragonhawk when we were escaping the city—don't tell me you can't handle heights."

"I really don't like Dalaran," he said simply.

Aethas gasped, feigning shock—and so convincingly, too, that it looked to Rommath like he'd actually lost a couple shades of color. "I—I never would've guessed," he breathed. "I don't even—this is  _such_  a surprise to me, I can hardly even wrap my head—"

The grand magister silenced him with a glare. "Are you satisfied now?" he said pointedly. "Would you like to be on your way?"

"Rommath," Sunreaver drawled. "Don't be like that."

Rommath pricked a brow. "Like what?"

"Like  _that_ ," he told him. "Don't tell me you can't stand the cold and then turn yourself to ice in the same breath."

He thought that was a rather dramatic way to put it, but that was Aethas Sunreaver; he shrugged anyhow.

"Where's that timid kid you were just talking about gone off to?" Aethas pressed.

Rommath squinted at the skyline, far from Sunreaver. "I hear there're some people who change between the age of eight and adulthood. Fascinating concept."

The comment was seemingly lost on Aethas. "I didn't mean to interrupt you." The redhead nudged Rommath until he caught his attention, and proceeded to give an apologetic glance that almost made the sore ribs worthwhile. "Please," he insisted. "Keep going."

"That was the end of the story," Rommath told him.

"Eleven years, and you've only got one story to speak of?" the archmage asked. "Pathetic! Why, I started studying there when I was sixteen and I've got  _hundreds_  of tales to tell. This one time—"

"All right, all right, fine," Rommath conceded. "There aren't a lot of stories from my childhood that stand out in my memory. That's all."

"There have to be  _some_ ," Aethas prodded, with a little bit of elbow for effect. "Tell me how you did it, then. How'd you go from a bashful little boy to the grouchy old man we all know and tolerate at meetings?"

"I'm  _not_  old," Rommath said.

* * *

But on that day, the boy  _was_  older.

The sky was streaked with red and gold, and Rommath was feeling almost at home amongst the smoke and cinders.

When he'd told Telestra, she'd smiled and kissed him on the forehead. But Rommath thought perhaps she'd misinterpreted the message.

The Midsummer Fire Festival finale was finally upon them, and everyone's mood seemed brighter than the bonfires out front of the city gates, but if this meant the season was supposed to start winding down, nature had neglected to notice. Dalaran's winters might've been brutal, but Rommath missed them once summer came around, bringing with it drought, dust, and a dry heat that made him wish he could crawl out of his skin.

He sighed as he shut the door behind him, but the heat had him panting so hard it was impossible to tell anyhow. Telestra's tower wasn't much cooler than the air outdoors, but at least he was safe from sunburn in here.

"Someone there?" called Telestra from the kitchen.

Still working on her makeup, Rommath assumed. She liked the lighting by the window, and had a tendency to sit there for hours.

"Just Rommath," Kael said through a mouthful of porridge. He'd been slouched at the table just as long, stripped down to his underwear with his head barely propped on the table. "Again."

"Another visit to the mailbox, boy?" Her gaze was fixed on her reflection in the hand mirror, but Rommath could practically hear her smirking from where he stood. "I'm fairly certain I've never seen a courier stop by this late as long as I've lived here."

Rommath didn't know how long that was, but if the creaks and groans Telestra's tower made at night were any indicator, it had to be quite a while.

The prince ignored her. "Anything this time, Rom?"

He shook his head as he took his seat at Kael's side.

"There was a letter from the temple when I checked this morning," Telestra offered. "Should be on the table there, if you want it. Or I can put it with the others."

Rommath stared at the envelope across from him, eying the golden seal with a hint of unease. When he pulled the letter close, he could see his mother's handwriting scrawled across the front, but he didn't know what he was expecting anyway.

His father would've been furious if he found out about the letters—the boy was sure of it—but as long as he didn't write back...

Rommath chewed the inside of his cheek as he thought.

Ultimately, he decided there was no harm in reading it. Just once.

Besides, Telestra was still pouting at her reflection, and Kael was spaced out, sucking on his spoon. No witnesses to speak of.

Rommath took his time prying off the seal, taking care to keep it intact—just in case. But he'd only unfolded it enough to read the first line—"Happy Birthday, my sweet boy!"—before his eyes started to sting, and he figured if he went any further, the words were bound to become a bit blurry. Folding the note hastily along the creases, he tucked it into his front pocket, far from his view.

The prince must've returned to reality at some point, but he was polite enough to pretend he didn't notice, shifting his gaze back to his porridge the moment he met Rommath's stare.

Telestra continued on, oblivious: "I doubt you two'll be awake by the time I get back, so you've got the evening to yourselves," she said faintly.

The woman hated the heat—it made her ill, by all accounts—but the festivities always drew her out of her home, no matter the weather, and the Midsummer Fire Festival ruled the rest.

"But I trust you two know the drill by now. Finish your homework, stay out of trouble—and the wine cellar, Kael—the usual, all right?"

The prince looked displeased; Rommath nodded. The usual.

"Good." Turning to face them then, Telestra loosened the neckline of her dress and looked up at the boys. "How's my lipstick?"

"Looks  _lovely_ ," the prince told her.

Rommath nodded once more for good measure. "Much better than the fuschia."

"All right, my loves," she said. "Be good, or good at it."

Telestra made one final adjustment to her cleavage, then grinned, and she was gone.

Rommath watched the door click shut with a sigh. He suspected it would be a slow evening. In his experience, the shortest night of the year always found a way to last the longest.

But it looked as though Kael had plans to make the most of it. The prince was on his feet and shrugging his way into his robes the moment Telestra was out of earshot.

"Where are you going?" Rommath asked.

" _We_." He gestured for the younger boy to stand. "Come on! I heard down in The Eventide girls are taking off their shirts in exchange for a burning blossom!"

Rommath didn't see what was so exciting about that. He did appreciate the ribbon dance, however; the colors made him smile. But there wasn't time for girls  _or_  dancing. "What about our reading assignment?"

"You're not serious, are you…?"

Rommath hesitated, then decided he was better off just agreeing.

"Get dressed," Kael told him. "We should hurry if we want to beat the crowds."

* * *

They did not, as it happened, beat the crowds. The boys might as well have been the last two to show up for the festivities.

By the time they arrived at the Eventide, all of Dalaran seemed to have packed themselves into the plaza, so densely that between all the partygoers and the fires they brought with, there shouldn't feasibly have been enough oxygen to share.

Not that anyone seemed to care. They were swaying and singing, cradling flames and tossing torches, swinging drinks and throwing back their tankards—the only thing they weren't doing, it appeared, was taking off their shirts in exchange for burning blossoms. None of the girls, leastways.

Kael was sorely disappointed when he gave up his search—about ten minutes in, as always—but Rommath didn't suppose he was any sadder than he started off. At least the sun was going down, so his shirt didn't stick to his skin.

It was much darker beyond the crowds, without the multitude of flamebearers and firebreathers to light the night. The boys zig-zagged their way down the smoky streets, bouncing from brazier to brazier as they headed back to Telestra's tower.

"Doesn't hold a candle to the festival in Silvermoon," Kael was muttering. "They do a decent job here, I guess. They've got spirit, I'll give them that."

Rommath nodded his silent agreement, watching the banners floating lazily overhead.

"But I miss the parades. And looking out over the city all ablaze in the dead of night. And waking up to the smell of fresh incense." The prince's lips twitched in a smile. "The palace was never so beautiful as it was for those two weeks."

Rommath had only seen the palace once, from afar—his family followed the funeral procession down the Walk of Elders when the queen had passed. He didn't remember all that well, but he didn't think he ought to ask Kael to jog his memory.

"My father had the most splendid robes commissioned for the holiday, a pair for each of us, all my brothers and me," Kael told him. "It was my favorite part of the whole affair." He gave his companion a purposeful nudge. "Didn't your family have any Midsummer traditions?"

The boy shrugged a shoulder. "We watched the finale on the fourth floor balcony," he said softly. "My mother would make a cake every year."

"Aren't you deathly afraid of heights…?" Kael asked.

'Deathly' seemed like a bit of an exaggeration to Rommath. "I wouldn't say—"

"You get queasy going down stairs."

In his defense, Telestra's spiral staircase was infamously steep. But Rommath didn't care to quarrel. "I wasn't afraid, not yet," he said simply. "My brother used to hold me up so I could stand on the railing."

"Brother?" Kael echoed. "You told me you didn't have any brothers. The first day we met. I remember."

Rommath stumbled over his thoughts. "W-Well, I don't have a brother," he said, shrugging self-consciously. "I  _had_  a brother."

" _Had_?" The prince tilted his head, pressing closer in case Rommath had failed to notice his confusion. "I don't understand."

His chest tightened. "Not supposed to talk about it."

" _Rom_ ," said the prince, in his most persuasive purr. "How long have we been friends?"

"Five months and eight days." It was his standing record, by far. "But my father said—"

Kael looked as though he was trying very hard not to scowl. "Well, I'm the prince," he reminded him. "And I think you should tell me."

"Well, it depends who you ask, I guess," Rommath told him. "Mother said he was killed by trolls. Father said he'd still be alive if I could teleport. But they weren't there. I think it was the fall that did him in, and the trolls just finished the job."

"Oh." Kael glanced at Rommath, then his feet, then back at Rommath. "I'm sorry."

He shrugged. They weren't supposed to play near the cliffs anyway, certainly not after dark. Sometimes Rommath thought his brother was damned from the start.

"That why you're afraid of heights?"

"Dunno," said Rommath. "I didn't see him hit the ground."

He heard it, though. Made an awful sound.

"Hm," Kael mused. And then, when Rommath said nothing resembling an elaboration, again: " _Hm_."

Rommath stared straight ahead, avoiding Kael's gaze. Telestra's tower was just barely visible from the street now, and it had never looked so much like a sanctuary as it did at that moment. "Thank the Light," he said stiffly, "we're almost home. We'll have plenty of time to finish the reading—"

"Why're you afraid, then?"

Rommath cringed. "I'm not supposed to talk about that either."

The prince exhaled exasperation. "Is there anything you  _are_  supposed to talk about?"

Magic was always a safe topic. And the weather, when it was nice out.

"By the Well," Kael muttered. "No wonder everyone thinks you're a mute."

Rommath went back to watching their feet, furrowing his brows as he worked on an explanation. "I shouldn't—Father says—" He sighed, fighting with his words. "Father says it's no one's business but ours. I'm not supposed to air the family's dirty laundry."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Dunno," he mumbled. "I've never even done laundry before."

Sometimes he helped his mother fold the clothes, but he was never tall enough to hang anything on the line to dry—dirty or otherwise. But that was a while ago. Seven months and twenty-two days. She'd gone in the dead of night.

And now she was no more than memories and envelopes with gold seals in the mailbox on Mondays. Her letter weighed in his pocket like a stone, pulling him down as he struggled up the steps to Telestra's tower.

He wanted it gone.

No, not gone. Just away. Out of sight. He'd put it—

Something else was pulling him now, a vice grip on his forearm—too tight, the way his father held him—and it took every ounce of composure the small boy possessed not to burst into tears right there.

But Kael was not glaring down at him, and Kael was not hissing through his teeth, telling him to behave himself.

Kael was smiling sweetly, that charming smile he'd no doubt picked up around the palace. "I just want to know," he whispered, so close his breath gave Rommath chills. "You've never talked about  _you_ , not to anyone. Please."

Rommath stayed silent until he was certain he could speak without letting loose a yelp.

"I had an...a magical mishap." He shrugged hastily. "I jumped from the third story veranda."

The prince softened, both his smile and his grip. "On purpose?"

Silently, Rommath thanked the Light for the darkness, because his cheeks were burning brighter than a whole fire festival's worth of flames. "I kept having nightmares about falling. Or hitting the ground, I guess. After Oroveth, um, passed." He shook his head. "So I took an interest in levitation. But I wasn't very good at it."

Kael stared at him in a way Rommath could only think to describe as gentle. "You must've been decent," the prince told him. "You survived."

"Dumb luck." For a dumb boy, it would seem. "I landed in my mother's garden. Her silverleaf bushes broke my fall. But I still...um, broke…"

Both legs at the knee, and his right once more, closer to the hip. Cracked a couple ribs, too, along that same side. But he didn't guess he needed to tell the prince; he'd seen the scars.

"I saw someone die once and I wanted to jump off a balcony too," Kael offered. "My father always tells me I was too young to remember, but I'm definitely not as young as he thinks." His words slowed down and he dropped his gaze, perhaps for the first time since they'd met. "Besides, even if I were...I bet I'd have remembered anyway. Not the sort of thing you forget."

Rommath nodded. He knew.

"Mother was sick for a long time," Kael told him. "Sleeping sickness, they called it. Everyone said she'd die eventually, but I didn't believe them. I visited her every night, even when the guards stopped letting me in. I climbed through the window so I could brush her hair for her. I didn't want it to be a mess when she woke up. But she didn't."

The prince glanced at his hand, as if he'd just remembered he was holding onto Rommath—or his sleeve, by now. His grip was slipping, as he'd started to lean, and he was hanging onto the fabric like it was the only thing that might keep him upright.

"Did you cry?" Rommath asked. His voice sounded far too loud to his own ears, but Kael didn't seem to notice.

"Yes," he said. "I loved her more than anything."

Rommath didn't cry for Oroveth, but he didn't think he would say so. He only cried when his father yelled and shook him senseless. His father had cried often, though.

"I think you're sad a lot," Kael informed him. "Surround yourself with sad people and there's no doubt you'll end up in the same sorry state. Better to stick with people who are always happy, if you're looking for a role model."

Rommath tongued at the gap where his right incisor was growing in, weighing the prince's words. "Are you happy all the time?"

"I don't really know," he said softly. "Sometimes I feel like I've never been sad, and other times I feel like I haven't been happy in a whole year. Maybe no one's always happy. Or maybe there's just something wrong with me." He smoothed out his robes with a shrug. "Just find someone who makes you smile," he said, giving his best grin. "How about that?"

Rommath's lips twitched, barely resembling a smirk.

"That's it," the prince told him. "You done moping for the day?"

He gave the mailbox one last glance. "I suppose," he said.

And that was that.

"You still expecting something?" Kael asked, leaning into Rommath's view.

"Um, no." Rommath kept his eyes downcast. "I thought my father would send a letter. For my birthday, and all...and maybe because I've written him lots of letters. But maybe tomorrow—"

"Birthday?" Apparently, the prince had not heard the rest. "When?"

"Today," Rommath told him.

"Today's the Midsummer Fire Festival finale."

"That too."

"You didn't tell me?" Kael sounded offended, but it was hard for Rommath to tell. "Why didn't you say? We're supposed to tell each other everything."

"I-I'm sorry," Rommath said, and he meant it. "I didn't know—"

Kael wasn't paying attention, per the usual. He was heading down the stairs instead, eyes ahead. "Stay right there, Rom. I'll be back."

"Wh-What?" he stammered. "Don't leave, it's dark!"

"Stay there!" Kael called from the curb.

Rommath didn't guess he really had any say in the matter, because the keys to Telestra's tower were jingling at the prince's hip as he raced down the street.

So he sat on the steps, close to the nearest brazier, and pretended he wasn't too petrified to be patient. But then Kael took too long, and he was starting to get too petrified to even pretend.

And so he started to pace, never too far from the light, where he could stare down the shadows in safety. Just pulled his robes tighter around his shoulders, jammed his hands in his pockets, and—

Remembered his mother's letter.

He guessed it was the most he was going to get, and he was grateful, really.

Pursing his lips as he peeled open the parchment, he skimmed over the words in the flickering firelight:

" _Happy Birthday, my sweet boy!_

_I know you're busy, so I'll keep it brief—but I just wanted to wish you well, and I hope you're having a lovely day! I'm sorry I can't see you, but please know that I miss you terribly, and I think of you often, and how tall you must be now. I just know you're doing magnificent things, my love, and I can't wait for the day when you can tell me all about them!_

_Lots of love,_

_Mother_."

Rommath didn't want to cry. He didn't want red, puffy eyes or a runny nose or tears trickling down to his chin, dashing themselves on the letter below and soaking the parchment through. If he saw the ink run, he would probably cry harder. So he pulled the collar of his shirt up to his eyes until they stopped stinging, and focused instead on finding his breath.

Then someone started talking.

"Are you lost?"

Rommath froze, in spite of the heat, but he did his best to convince himself the words weren't meant for him and went about minding his own business from the security of his shirt.

" _Hello_? Do you need help?"

Rommath peered over his collar, eying the pair of children who peered at him from the edge of the firelight. A girl—not much older than Rommath, if he had to guess—and a boy, younger, both with hair like the dawn, held back in braids. They looked as though they'd just arrived back from the Eventide, clutching burning blossoms and smelling distinctly of woodsmoke.

"Hello?" the girl tried again. "You lost?"

Rommath stared at Telestra's tower. He was about as far from lost as he could possibly manage.

" _Liora_ ," said the boy, tugging at her dress. "Let's  _go_."

"Stop whining." She brushed him off with ease, and turned her gaze back to Rommath. "I'm Liora. That's my brother, Astalor." The girl offered her hand to shake. "What's your name?"

Rommath blinked, his preferred method of introduction.

"Hey," she said, reaching for his hand.

He snatched it back without a thought, giving her a good look at the whites of his eyes as he stared at her, horrified.

"Relax," she purred. "I wasn't going to slice off your fingers or something. Don't be scared." Liora inched closer, wary, like one might approach a rabid dog. She seemed like the sort of person who might approach a rabid dog. "Why're you crying?"

"I-I'm not!" Rommath exclaimed, hiding behind the brazier.

But Liora remained unconvinced. Pulling her brother along by his tunic, she drew closer. "You are," she told him. Even went so far as to brush back his bangs so she could get a better look at him. "No need to fear. I just want to know your name."

" _Liora_ ," the little boy whined. "We've got to go—"

"Shush, Astalor," she snapped.

"I'm not crying," Rommath said, once more to fill the silence. "I'm...um, Rommath."

Liora summoned up a smile so sweet it'd be a small wonder if it didn't give her a bellyache. "Not Crying?" she teased. "That's an odd name. Sounds foreign. No matter! It's a pleasure, Not Crying."

Astalor grunted, glaring at his sister. "Hi. Nice to meet you."

Rommath nodded, but he wasn't so sure.

"We were just on our way home," Liora explained. "If you're lost or something, our house is only a couple blocks north—you could come with—"

It was at this precise moment that the prince chose to make his entrance:

"What's this?" He strode between them, back straight and chin high, like he meant to tower over all of them. "He's not going anywhere."

Liora frowned. "I should think that's up to him."

Kael ignored her, shifting the bundle he'd brought back to one arm so he could throw the other around Rommath. "Come on, Rom. You'll love this."

Rommath followed without question.

"Oh," said Liora. "Guess we'll see you around, Not Crying?"

Rommath supposed she couldn't see, but he smirked at that.

The prince only let him go to unlock the door, and as soon as he'd finished fumbling with the keys, he'd taken him by the hand again, pulling him up the spiral staircase at record speed. Then up the ladder and into the loft, ten creaky paces across the floorboards, and an abrupt halt at the windowsill, where the faded blue-gold pennant of Silvermoon swung idly in the breeze.

Their destination, it would seem. He stayed a safe distance from the window, keeping an eye on the ground he could actually see.

Kael pressed the burlap bag into Rommath's arms, grinning like a court fool. " _Open it_."

Rommath peered inside. "Fireworks…?"

"And cake!" the prince cried. "Well,  _cupcakes_. But the bakery was closing and they were all out of real cakes."

He stared at the mess of crumbs and firework clusters, smeared with orange and red icing, like they'd already caught fire.

"Damn it," Kael muttered. "Should've asked for a separate bag." But he didn't seem all that upset when he was licking the frosting off the fireworks. "There! All fixed."

A study in arcane, after his father, Rommath supposed he was no expert in fire magic, but he had a hard time expecting the clusters to light after Kael was finished sucking on them.

But the prince, it seemed, was an optimist.

"Watch this!"

He sent a firecracker flying out the open window, followed up by a spell to set it alight.

Rommath was hesitant to watch its descent—it was a steep drop, and those cobblestones looked especially hard from this high up—but even a brief glance at the streets below was enough to tell him it hadn't gone well.

The prince pouted. Then, in true Kael fashion, promptly made another attempt.

This one smoked, sputtered, sparked, but—nothing.

Fed up and frustrated, Kael tossed the rest of the fireworks out the open window, seeing each one off with a swear.

But a deafening crack shook the city before they even hit the ground.

At first, he thought it was a thunderclap, but by the second boom, he saw the flashes—red, gold, green, orange, all the colors of summer—and as he squinted against the light, it dawned on him.

The finale was upon them.

Somewhere in the blur of his periphery, Kael was doubled over in laughter, giddy with glee, but Rommath couldn't hear him either. The firework finale always left him deaf and dumb. But his mouth was full of frosting, and he didn't guess he needed his words anyhow. Just a grin.


	4. -III-

_-III-_

Rommath hadn't attended the Faire of Fire and Steel since he was six, and he'd never thought much of it.

The whole affair was a bit barbaric, as far as Rommath recalled. Two weeks of slashing and clashing and bashing. Anyone with a bit of brawn called it a test of mettle; Rommath's father said it was a test of metal, and nothing more.

Once one crossed the Elrendar River, however, the holiday took on an entirely different form.

The Southlands of Quel'Thalas were rugged, dangerous, and famous for two things: trolls and the people who fought them. The rural population churned out able-bodied warriors like it churned out wheat and wine grapes—year-round, if the Amani didn't do away with them before they reached the age of maturity.

And for those who didn't want to spend their lives fattening calves for the rich folk up north and tending sheep whose wool they'd never wear, there were about three viable options: starve, join the Rangers for a life cut short by Amani axes, or make a good impression at the festival.

There was always a good market for mercenaries by the time the festival made its way up north to Silvermoon; after almost two weeks of betting, half the upper class was looking for some nice oafish Southlanders in their service, since the other half was hiring their very own oafish Southlanders to collect their dues.

Rommath's father hated the Southlands—he thought they smelled like dirt and manure, and he wasn't really wrong—but their family's estate on the coast was as old as their seat on the Convocation of Silvermoon, and his father didn't seem keen on relinquishing either. Oroveth, on the other hand, adored the outdoors. He might've made a good Farstrider one day, if he'd been born with better bone structure, but weak hearts ran in their bloodline; the closest he'd ever gotten to the competition was a seat on the stadium's seventh row, which had been largely neglected in favor of his father's shoulders.

Until Rommath was six, anyhow. Thanks to his father's silken voice—or perhaps it was the cold glare that did it—they'd scored a spot at the front of the risers. However, his father's influence couldn't spare the unlucky jouster who'd found himself skewered on his opponent's lance and died before the eyes of the entire crowd in the second round.

Rommath had taken one look at the carnage, promptly vomited, and proceeded to scream until they'd returned home.

Now, he didn't really wish to see any of that repeat itself, but if he were to be honest, he certainly would've wished to see the prince.

Kael'thas had been summoned back to Silvermoon to participate in the final round of the tournament, alongside his brothers and the king himself. It was the highest honor of the festival, reserved strictly for victors, but Kael had promised Rommath the combatants would be tried for treason if they so much as  _touched_  him.

Seemed pointless to Rommath, but the prince was just thrilled he was finally old enough to partake. It was all he'd ever wanted, when he was younger, or at least it had been since he received the letter from his father. Telestra's tower had been filled well past capacity with tidbits of trivia and obscure rules and regulations of the tourney up until the very moment Kael had pulled the door shut behind him.

And then it was silent.

Agonizingly silent.

The mornings were silent, without Kael cursing the world into existence. The nights were silent too, without the rhythmic rise and fall of the prince's breathing as he dreamt across the attic.

Well, almost silent, anyway. Telestra and her various guests had done their part in keeping up the rhythm in Kael's absence. Still just as eerie, nonetheless.

But it was well past noon now, and she was anything but quiet. "Said he'd be back by evening lessons, damn him," she told the tome in her lap. "If he's not here by sundown, I'll flay him personally."

She'd been scowling since she'd sat down, slouched in her armchair with a stack of scholarly readings and a champagne flute. It was her personal remedy for separation anxiety, tried and tested every Winter Veil when Kael left to play the part of a prince at banquets and balls. But she'd have never admitted it herself.

Rommath didn't pay her much thought. His mind was elsewhere, struggling to bend a devastatingly simple arcane law to his will.

"Take him to the tanner on the corner by Belan's Bakery," she was grumbling—her favorite threat. "Wear his hide like a cloak."

Rommath nodded absently as he pored over his notes. The most recent attempt had quickly turned from a spell to a curse, when he'd singed his fingertips on a flash of vaporized mana.

"Your patience is admirable, I'll give you that."

Rommath faintly registered the comment, glancing up from his pages with a frown. "I'm waiting for the prince," he said simply.

"Not what I meant," Telestra told him. She watched his fingers as they worked the spell this time, eyes narrowed in scrutiny. "Watch your articulation. Be precise."

Rommath inhaled and set his shoulders straight, gathering up the remnants of his focus into one dense breath. When the spell crossed his lips, he swore he could feel the slightest sting against his skin, see the merest flicker of light in his palm, spitting and popping like a white-hot flame. The air hummed, charged with energy, and he could feel it, familiar as the first lines of his favorite book—

But that was all, nothing more.

It never sparked to life, never surged into some blindingly bright existence. Nothing.

Rommath scowled—well, he crinkled his nose, but that was the best he could do.

Telestra went back to her books, annotating in the margins as she read, but she tapped two fingers at her temple before she'd completely removed herself from reality. "Use your brain, boy."

He closed his eyes and cleared his mind, dispelled all thoughts of his father and other scowling Silvermoon magi like it was as simple as some novice counterspell. In truth, he just had a lot of practice.

When he breathed the words of the spell, he felt nothing. His hair didn't prickle, the air didn't sing, the room didn't smell like a thunderstorm—the telltale scent of arcane.

But nonetheless, the room was brighter.

Standing centered in the doorway was the youngest prince of Silvermoon, hands on his hips and lips twitching in a smirk. " _Hello_?" he called, in a voice that demanded the attention of everyone within earshot. "Where's my fanfare?"

Rommath was already on his feet by the time the door clicked shut, sealing out the afternoon sun. The prince wore a grin brighter than any arcane spell he'd ever seen.

Telestra acknowledged his arrival with a sip of champagne, then turned her attention right back to her tome. "How's your father?"

"My father is droll," Kael drawled. "Busy  _all_  the time."

Telestra hummed, clearly less than amused. "Your brothers?"

"Good," said the prince. "Nall's daughter had her baby while I was there. He kept trying to get me to hold the thing, but she looked all small and squishy. Eldin didn't even show up. But that's nothing unusual. Can't fathom how he stands to be pissed at everything every second of every day. Must be exhausting." He tossed his knapsack at an empty chair and perched himself on the arm. "But the rest of the trip was great! Want to hear?"

Telestra turned a page, which the prince took to mean yes.

"I got run through by a real actual blade!" he exclaimed. "Right between my ribs! I could've died!"

Rommath gasped.

"Hm," was all Telestra had to say.

"You want to see the scar?"

The prince was already tugging at his tunic by the time Telestra looked up from her book.

"Did it ever occur to you to invest in some combat training before you disappeared off to Silvermoon for a fortnight?"

"I'm just fine with a sword," he informed her. "Eldin's better, that's all." He shrugged a shoulder, leaning toward Telestra with his smirk that refused to be ignored. "Besides, wouldn't want to conflict with your lessons."

Telestra gave a laugh cold enough to conjure up a frostbolt. "Oh, please. You had no problem missing my lessons for two weeks to go traipse around a tournament for fools."

" _Telestra_ ," he said, smiling for her. "You know, the lessons weren't  _all_  I missed." He closed her book as he closed in, pulling her to her feet and into a hug before she could protest. "I would've taken you both along if I could, you know that."

She didn't return the sentiment, frozen stiff in his embrace, but her frigid glare melted away when he stepped back.

"How is it that you seem to have grown since I saw you last?" she murmured. "I am eternally baffled by young boys' ability to turn meals into mass as quick as they do." One glance at Rommath, a tad too tall and in desperate need of a few pounds, and she thought better of herself: "Perhaps mass isn't the most apt word, hm?"

"Rom," the prince purred, following her gaze, "are you mad at me too?"

"Preposterous," said Rommath.

"Well, I got you something just in case," Kael told him. "Come help me unpack and I'll show you."

The prince slung his pack over one shoulder and headed on up the stairwell, never even bothered to cast a glance over his shoulder. Rommath was always close behind.

Once they'd reached the attic, Kael "unpacked", a term that he'd taken to mean "dumping the contents of his bag on the floor"—all but one small pouch, tied shut like a coinpurse, which the prince caught before it could fall too far. Without word or warning, he tossed it Rommath's way, though he didn't seem all that surprised to hear it land on the mattress with a thud that betrayed its density.

"I don't think you expected me to catch that at all," Rommath told him. His hand-eye coordination was a bit lacking, but he thought the exercises Telestra had shown him were really starting to make a difference.

"Open it," Kael said absently. He was working his way out of his royal regalia and into some more comfortable robes.

Rommath didn't question the order. He took a seat at the foot of his bed, untangling the twine tied tight around the pouch to peer inside. A string of beads lay coiled at the bottom, heavy in the palm of his hand. Smooth sandalwood and polished bone, threaded together on a cord of sinew—Rommath recognized it immediately.

It took him a moment to put his jaw back in place, but even once he quit gaping, all he managed was a couple words of disbelief: "Prayer beads?"

The prince angled the standing mirror for a better look at his outfit. "It's not rosewood, and I think the bone bits are just ivory, but I figured it was close enough, and I wouldn't want to touch someone else's bones anyway. Seems a bit barbaric, if you ask me."

Rommath's father thought the same thing, but the man had a respect for tradition that bordered on devout. The priestesses had kept charms from loved ones lost for millennia—some said the custom had its roots in the Temple of Elune, dating as far back as the War of the Ancients.

Rommath didn't know about that, but he did know his mother was particularly fond of the practice. Her family had ties to the temple predating the Troll Wars, and all the priestesses of her family had done it just as she had. And so she'd added a bone for each of them, always followed by a rosewood charm, until they'd numbered too many to wear beneath her robes.

She'd sobbed when she added one for Oroveth; his was smaller than the rest.

Rommath didn't know what to say.

"Suppose it's a bit unusual, for a souvenir," Kael said with a shrug, "but Nallorath and his wife  _made_  me go to the temple, and it was hard not to think of you. Use them with your morning prayers or something."

Rommath's morning prayers had less to do with the Light and more to do with his mother, but he didn't suppose that made the gift any less valuable.

"Thank you," he said finally, speaking the words like a breath.

He caught a glimpse of the prince's smirk in the mirror's reflection, but for all Rommath knew, the satisfaction was meant for his outfit. "Was nothing," he told him. "Easy to come by. The priestesses were sweet. Couple of them followed me around all day."

Rommath tilted his head, curious.

"Better than the socialites," he went on, smoothing a crease out of his tunic. " _They_  chased me around from dawn till dusk. Few times I thought they were going to tear each other's eyes out over who got to sit beside me at dinner."

Rommath frowned. Perhaps he ought to have been glad he didn't go along for the festivities.

The prince made a dismissive gesture. "Wore me out after a while, in all honesty. New girl every night, and my father trying to prompt us into conversation, while all they wanted to talk about was swapping spit and shopping for souvenirs. Never thought I'd say it, but I really missed Telestra's lectures. That's how starved for intelligent conversation I'd gotten."

Something vaguely akin to a smile tugged at Rommath's lips, but it was hidden well behind his hair as the boy stared at his lap, winding the beads in and out of his fingers. "It can't have been  _that_  bad."

"Well," said the prince, shrugging, "it matters not. I'm glad to be home."

Rommath nodded his agreement; it went without saying.

"Now." He turned to face Rommath, wearing his widest grin. "Tell me how much you missed me."

Words failed him, as they often did. Instead, he settled on a gesture—arms outstretched, wide as he could make them.

The prince laughed, but it seemed he was pleased. "And, and, and," the prince pressed, "how terribly, awfully bored you were without me. Bet you didn't do anything but stare at the window awaiting my return, hm?"

It seemed the prayer beads weren't the only souvenir the prince had brought back from Silvermoon with him; Rommath recognized that dramatic flair—no one did it quite like the elves.

"Something like that," said Rommath, chewing at his lip. "It was...um, weird…"

Kael's reflection caught his eye again, and he went back to fretting over his hair. "I wanted to take the crown back with me, but Father said it had to stay," he told him. "Pity. I thought it looked quite nice on me."

Rommath swallowed.

"Is that doubt, Rom?"

"N-No, nothing of the sort," said Rommath, shifting uncomfortably. "Not really, anyway."

The prince in the mirror arched a brow at him. "Not really?"

"I don't doubt the crown looked lovely on you," he clarified. He'd only seen it in paintings on Quel'Danas, but he supposed white-gold must've done wonders for Kael's complexion. "I'm just not sure I was completely honest about that whole staring out the window bit."

Kael watched expectantly as Rommath tugged at the beads some more.

"Um, keep going?" He winced. "A-All right, well—I promise I was bored and everything, but, um, that also had something to do with a minor mishap in which I might've inadvertently ruined my life."

The prince blinked at him, his confusion clear to see. "Are you okay…?"

"I haven't decided," Rommath told him. "I was hoping to consult you first."

"Spill."

By this point, Rommath knew better than to put up a protest. He clenched the beads tightly in one fist, and the hem of his sleeve in the other. "I kissed Liora." The words came out like a finishing blow—quickly, with grave impact. "Well, I think Liora might've kissed me."

A frown pulled at Kael's brow. "You what?"

Rommath drew a steadying breath, though it didn't stop his hands from shaking. "Telestra was sick of me following her around the house, so she suggested I go play with Astalor and Liora. I didn't want to go, because you weren't there, but she said—" His voice jumped an octave as he gave his best impression of Telestra's telltale lilt. "— _you can't hope to spend your whole life hiding behind the prince, boy, not if you're hoping to get any taller!_  Which is just ridiculous. You've always been taller and you always will be. Right?"

The prince's expression was neutral, emotionless in a way that made Rommath want to shudder.

"A-Anyway, I think Telestra just wanted the house to herself. Or not to  _herself_ , exactly, but you know what I mean. So I did as she asked because I always do, and I went to see Astalor and Liora, and—she invited me over for dinner, and she kissed me when her parents weren't looking, and I didn't kiss her back all that well, so I got scared. And you know how my stomach acts when I'm scared."

Rommath had to pause for air. The beads were hopelessly tangled up in his fingers, and he thought that he might be sick right there in front of Kael.

"Don't tell me you—" the prince started.

"No!" he exclaimed. "But I dry-heaved once and made a pretty abrupt exit, and now I guess she must hate me, because I haven't seen her since. And I guess that could be because I haven't left the house. But I don't know."

Kael was silent for a moment, blank-faced as he processed this. "You...kissed Liora."

Rommath didn't think Kael had interpreted that part of the story correctly, but he didn't exactly want to repeat any of it. Or speak at all, really. So he nodded instead, thoroughly winded.

"Why would you do that?" Kael asked. He was leaning where he stood, shoulders sagging, defenses down—like he was back at the tourney and just got blindsided, and his voice was just as hoarse. "You're  _my_  friend."

Rommath flinched. "You kiss everyone," he tried.

"That's different," Kael told him. The prince shrugged his shoulders back into alignment, straightening out his composure and his posture both in one quick breath. "You two going to date now?"

"I don't know," he said, shaking "I don't—do you think that I should?"

"Little concern of mine." Kael was smoothing out his robes now, a perfect little prince once more. "I don't care either way."

Rommath didn't think that really answered his question, but he appreciated Kael's input nonetheless. "She says she's in love with me."

"In love with you?" The prince scoffed. "That's ridiculous."

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Do you like her?"

Kael wasn't looking at him, and he seemed very intentional about it.

"She's nice," Rommath said. "She says my eyes are like emeralds. And she has soft hair."

Kael sobered as he met Rommath's gaze. "Do you  _like_  her?"

Rommath swallowed, but his mouth felt much too dry. "Like... _like_  her, like her?" The words stuck to his sandpaper tongue. "I don't know why she likes me. I never go anywhere without you, and usually the way it goes is that everyone wants to kiss you. So I've gotten pretty used to the idea that no one's going to kiss me, so I didn't think I'd need to p-practice or anything—Light, I don't even know how I'd go about that—and then  _Liora_ , well, she's nice, but I've never really liked her like she's liked me. She's pretty, and I know that, but I just can't—"

He glanced helplessly at the prince, closed his tirade with a sigh as he bowed his head in a gesture of defeat. "I shouldn't go on like this. I'm useless past three syllables, you know that, but who was I supposed to tell?" he asked. "I wish I liked her. I think there's something wrong with me."

The price was silent for a long moment—agonizingly silent. When he spoke, his voice was gentle, soft to counter Rommath's desperation: "I don't think there's anything wrong with you," he told him. "That's just the way it is. You don't  _like_  like everyone. Some people only  _like_  like one person in their whole life, I think. Or at least Nallorath says. And then there's Telestra."

That cracked the crease in Rommath's brow. "You don't think my life is over?"

"You're being dramatic." Coming from the youngest prince of Silvermoon, those words meant a lot. "What's the worst that's going to happen?"

"She tells everyone that I don't know how to kiss." He considered this for a moment, then subsequently cringed. "Or even  _be_  kissed."

"And?"

"And then I never find a wife."

"And?"

"And then I can't produce heirs to my name, and then my father disowns me, and then I have nothing—no name, no fortune, no inheritance—just shame."

The prince stared at him like he might've stared at an anthology on the complexities of arcanic mindbending. "I don't get it."

"I'm the last of my name," said Rommath. "If I don't produce heirs—"

"Stop," Kael interrupted. "Stop saying that please. It's weird. You're grossing me out. What eleven year old thinks about these things?"

"I think about a lot of things," Rommath told him.

"Evidently," said Kael. "That's quite an...intricate scenario you've managed to come up with."

His shoulders hitched in a stiff shrug. "You were gone quite a while."

"It's all right, Rom." The prince's words were gentle and his hands even more so, as he reached for Rommath, drawing him close for a hug until his breaths evened out. "I'll fix it, I promise. I'm going to fix it."

Rommath nodded against him, hiding the smallest of smiles against Kael's shoulder, where it couldn't be seen.

"You trust me, don't you?" Kael asked, stepping back for a better look at him.

"Of course," Rommath replied without pause.

"Good," said the prince. "Come on, then. Better hurry. I'll explain on the way."

* * *

If ever there came a time when Rommath questioned his loyalty to the prince, it was at that moment, standing on Liora's doorstep at sunset with a wilted flower in one hand and his prayer beads tangled up in the other. Kael had pulled him by the wrist the whole way here, but he'd since let go (despite Rommath's pleas) and was currently standing a step down from the porch, inspecting his nails as he waited for Rommath to carry out his instructions.

But when he knocked, there was no giggling girl waiting behind the front door—just apathetic Astalor, looking as always like he'd just been roused from a nap. "Oh, good. You're here. Liora will be so excited. Suppose I should be excited too. Maybe she'll talk about something else now."

Rommath stared blankly at him. He'd forgotten everything the prince told him to say.

Kael, on the other hand, merely grunted in reply. Better than nothing, Rommath supposed.

Astalor just yawned.

As usual, Kael saw fit to break the silence. "You gonna go get your sister, or just stand there looking like you don't deserve the last two syllables of your name?"

Astalor bent over in a mock bow, looking less than amused—but then, he always did. The door clicked shut, but two inches of mahogany and a chipped layer of paint on either side couldn't muffle his wail from within: " _Liora!_ " he howled, keening like a lost spirit. " _Kael and Rommath are here for you!_ "

The shrill squeal said plenty, but Astalor was a gracious host (by some very loose definition of the word), and he opened the door to greet his guests with a polite—albeit emotionally void—smile. "She'll be right down in just a—"

Liora crashed into view, narrowly avoiding a collision with her brother, who by now was looking pleased to take his leave.

"Rommath!" she cried. "Where've you been off to? How are you? Busy? Are you all right? I was worried sick." She slipped past her brother for a closer look at Rommath, as if the proximity alone would remind him how much he'd missed her—it didn't. "I'm glad you're here. Would you like to come inside?"

Rommath stared helplessly, breathless on her behalf. He couldn't find it within himself to blink at her, and that was how he knew the situation was dire.

"Faire of Fire and Steel," came Kael's voice from somewhere behind him. As if he'd stand to be ignored. "He was back in Silvermoon, with me. We had important business to attend to."

Liora glanced at him. "Hi, Kael," she said with a prim smile. "Would you mind if I spoke with Rommath?"

"You're speaking to him right now," the prince pointed out. "And you know well enough that the odds of him speaking back are slim to none."

There was a crease starting to form in her brow, a crack in her polite smile that proved she must've shared some blood with Astalor. "Would you mind if we spoke alone?"

Rommath didn't suppose his desperation was all that clear through Liora's lovesick lenses. Thank the Light for Kael, who didn't even have to look.

"Kind of," the prince answered for him.

Something like a shadow crossed the girl's features—frustration, if Rommath had to guess—but her smile didn't dim. Instead, she took Rommath's clammy hand in her own, inspecting the drooping petals of the flower in his fist. "For me?" she asked softly. "It's beautiful. I love it. Really."

Rommath nodded. It felt like a step up from staring stupidly at her every time she opened her mouth.

"I was dreadfully worried when you up and disappeared like that," she told him. "I missed you."

Rommath didn't think saying anything was in his best interest; one glance over the shoulder confirmed his suspicions. This was good. Rommath wasn't fond of saying anything anyhow.

"Would it be fair for me to assume that you've missed me as well?" she smiled coyly as she brushed her thumb over his knuckles. "Since you're here and all?"

Rommath cast one last look at Kael for support, but the prince had nothing to offer him; he was looking about as grave as a coroner.

So he supposed this was it.

He kissed her just as Kael had shown him: soft, but insistent, with one hand in her hair and the other resting awkwardly at her waist, still clutching at the string of beads. He didn't do any of the things with his tongue that Kael had suggested, but he didn't think he'd noticed—the prince was staring intently at his nails again, as if they'd somehow become more interesting in the last few minutes.

Liora, on the contrary, seemed quite pleased—flushed, but pleased nonetheless—and she trailed her fingers down his chest to make sure he knew. "I thought you missed me," she said, breathless. "Didn't think you missed me quite that much, though."

"Please don't tell everyone I'm bad at kissing," Rommath blurted. "O-Or that we kissed, either."

Liora frowned.

A fair reaction, Rommath supposed. The words had sounded much more convincing when they'd come from the prince. Most things did.

"I-I—" He paused, squeezing his eyes tightly shut as he struggled to recall the script Kael had given him. "I am not to pursue romantic relations until I've completed my apprenticeship. Father says they'll interfere with my studies."

He thought the last bit was a little over the top, but Kael had assured him that it would sound more like Rommath if he included something about his father.

Whatever the case, it seemed to do the trick for Liora. Her smile faltered as she stepped back, but that explosive temper of hers remained dormant, and Rommath thought that was all that mattered.

"That's all right," she murmured. "I'm due to be wed to some Saltheril back in Silvermoon soon as I come of age."

"Oh," said Rommath. That didn't sound very pleasant at all.

"Don't make that face," said the girl. "My parents are nice about it, or nicer than most. I hear some of the noble girls in Quel'Thalas aren't even allowed to  _talk_  to boys until they've met their intended. Mother says I can see whoever I want, long as I know I've got to break it off when I turn seventeen."

Rommath pushed back his hair, so she could better appreciate his sorrow. "That's awful," he said. "Really, I'm—"

"We've got to go," Kael announced.

"Oh," said Rommath. He didn't bother asking why. "I'll see you around, yeah?"

Liora pulled him close, hands on his shoulders, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before she let him go. "Sure thing," she said. "Take care, you two."

"Enjoy your evening," the prince told her, reclaiming custody of Rommath. "Tell Astalor we said goodbye."

Rommath didn't think Kael really needed to keep a hold on his sleeve as they started down the steps. He always followed the prince—closely, when he could help it.

Kael never complained when Rommath stepped on his heels. And Rommath didn't complain when Kael led him around by the wrist. If he had to guess, he'd say neither of them really minded all that much.

"Sorry," Kael said once they'd made it out of earshot. "Didn't mean to be abrupt or anything."

Rommath shrugged. He didn't mind that either.

"Just don't make a very good third wheel," the prince muttered.

Kael received no complaint from Rommath. Instead, he just sidled closer, grateful to speak at a more comfortable volume. "I owe you," he told him.

The prince's scowl softened a little at that. "Yeah, I think you do."

Rommath gave him a grin. "You're the best, y'know?"

"I know," Kael said, smiling. "But just so we don't have to go pulling another stunt like this one, you'd best not forget it."


	5. -IV-

_-IV-_

He might've had some questionable habits—a taste for wine and late nights that weren't always spent studying—but he was not spoiled. All of the prince's belongings, everything he'd owned since he left his palace in Silvermoon for Telestra's attic, fit in the trunk he'd brought along the day he moved in.

That chest itself must've been worth more than all its contents combined, with all its gilding and ornate decor, sigils of House Sunstrider stamped in gold and sapphire on every face. Truly, this must've been the only object in his possession that denoted his status, save perhaps the signet ring he wore on his right hand from time to time, and yet he'd kept it hidden away all these years. Tucked safely beneath his bed under a bulk of extra blankets, folded and stacked tidily in wait for the next deep freeze that blew in from the Alteracs.

Kael dropped the trunk at the foot of the stairs with a careless thud. "I appreciate the help," he said to the younger elf. "This should be over much quicker with the both of us."

Rommath's fingers tightened around the bannister, anchoring him where he stood—halfway down the stairwell, for he couldn't seem to move even a step further. Unfocused but intent, his eyes watched the door, cracked ajar with Kael's mittened hand resting on the knob. An apprentice no longer—the prince was so ready to go.

"Not that I'm eager to leave you two or anything," he amended. "Just want to be done with the moving part. Packing, unpacking—it's tedious and exhausting, you know?"

Rommath didn't know, not exactly. His father had sent him to Dalaran with all of four books, a pouch of gold strapped to his belt, and the clothes he was wearing.

The outfit had been regifted to one of Telestra's nephews once the sleeves were too short. The books still sat on the shelf in his attic that had become his own, untouched for years. The gold had gone to Telestra herself, as payment for his years of tutelage, he'd later found. She'd kept it in a lockbox in the drawer of her nightstand, and used the funds to buy her boys a new wardrobe every time they gained a couple inches.

And really, Rommath would've preferred it stay this way. He was a creature of habit, after all.

" _Rommath_."

From the way Kael drew out the syllables, Rommath guessed this wasn't the first time he'd called him. Second or third, at least. He blinked himself back into the present and offered the prince a taut smile, trusting the shadows to hide the cracks in his facade.

"Of course, Your Majesty," he said dryly. "It is an honor to be of service." He descended the steps rather awkwardly, hesitance stalling his every step, but as far as anyone else was concerned, it was merely the weather aggravating his arthritis. Nothing more. "You're all set, then?"

Kael gave his belongings a final cursory glance and half-shrugged his approval. "Guess so…" he said. "She's...really not coming down to say goodbye?"

"Telestra?" Rommath stared up the stairwell for a moment, giving her a chance to disprove him before he shook his head sympathetically. "Certainly not. She'd loathe for you to see her cry."

The prince's smile was smug but fond. "I knew she would. She called me a fool when I told her so, but I knew she would." His grin faded around the edges when he turned back to Rommath, regarding him with curious eyes. "I'd have guessed you would too."

Rommath acknowledged him with a humorless laugh, short and forced, but he said nothing; he didn't trust his tongue enough to offer a reply.

"But fear not." Kael's voice was strained as he hefted the chest onto his knee. "There's plenty of time yet."

He struggled under its weight—a comical display that might've otherwise brought a smile to both their faces were their moods a bit fairer—before he managed to balance it on a shoulder, giving Rommath a grateful smile when he moved to hold the door.

"You'll be disappointed," said Rommath with a solemn smile. "I won't shed a tear."

"Did you get it all out of your system in secret?" Kael asked. He teetered a little, topheavy as he headed down the porch steps. "I'll bet you sobbed yourself to sleep last night. I'll bet your pillow's still soaked."

Rommath scoffed. "I don't sob," he said. "It's undignifying."

"And what do you know about dignity?" the prince was teasing now. "Poor shy boy."

"I've got good posture," Rommath offered, "and sometimes I don't even stammer when I speak."

"I'm proud of you," said Kael, laughing. He reached his free arm toward the dark-haired elf, motioning for him to come closer and ultimately yanking him by the collar of his tunic when he didn't comply. "So perhaps you won't cry then, since you're the authority on dignity now, but I just want you to be warned— _and this stays between us_ —I very well may."

Rommath winced as the prince swayed unsteadily, liable to crush them both flat now that he had him trapped in his hold. "Will you now?" He found this hard to believe. "I haven't seen you cry in years."

"I have," Kael told him. "Only when I'm alone." His smile vanished without a trace, like it'd never existed at all. "I'm going to miss you. A lot, Rommath."

He wanted to assure Kael that he'd miss him more, with all the sincerity he could muster, but he doubted whether that was an appropriate reply.

Probably not.

So he counted the cobblestones as they passed beneath him instead, silent until the prince spoke up again.

"I'll visit often," he said after a moment. "Every other day, at least."

Rommath nodded some more.

Twelve...thirteen...fourteen was misshapen and ugly, and his thoughts thanked it for the distraction…

"Maybe even more," he offered, squeezing Rommath's shoulder a bit tighter. "How's that sound? Would you like that?"

"It's going to be weird without you," was all Rommath could say.

If Kael heard the words at all, he did a good job of hiding it. He stared straight ahead, watching the jagged skyline through the puff of frost that fell from his lips: a sigh the cold wouldn't let him hide.

Winter had lingered long past its welcome that year, persisting well into May with no sign of relent. It clung to the shingles as icicles that drooled and dribbled in the sun at high noon, and it collected in the gutters as slush that lined the streets, but it didn't seem to deter the prince. His eyes, as ever, were fixed on the horizon.

Rommath wanted to speak up, to say something. Anything. He wanted to pull the prince's gaze down from the heavens, to get one last glimpse of his constant companion before he set off ahead, chasing after that horizon.

But he opened his mouth twice, moved his lips in a pathetic attempt to form words just once, and finally accepted his silence with a drawn out sigh. Just stared at the cobblestones through the little flurries of breath that swirled before him. He'd lost count, had to restart.

One… Two...

He got to thirty-four before the hand on his shoulder swung him around to his left, the momentum from Kael's load nearly sending him sprawling across thirty-five, thirty-six, and thirty-seven.

"Here," Kael announced. "This is it."

The building was tall and wide and white, rows upon rows of windows and balconies, each identical to the last. A few scattered banners were hung sporadically from a windowsill here and there, but otherwise, the complex was quite plain.

By intention, Rommath assumed—plain was Dalaran's recipe for all things neat and tidy, after all. It was the residents who provided the chaos.

Kael was silent as he headed up the front steps, save for a muffled grunt when he tripped up the last stair.

Rommath stood his ground, unsure whether he should follow or leave. True, he'd always clung closely to the prince, never left more than a shadow's distance between them, but...he was going now. If ever there was a time for distance…

"I'll head back then," he said with a tight smile. "And I'll be sure to send Telestra your regards."

Kael halted abruptly, facing him with a frown. He looked confused, as if half of him was expecting Rommath to come along anyway. "You're leaving?" he asked. "I thought—Rom, you—" His free hand pushed his hair back, away from his eyes like he was trying to see him clearly.

Rommath looked away.

"You're leaving." It wasn't a question now, nor a plea, just acceptance. "Ah, well. My hands are full. I'll have to collect my hug on my next visit." The words were sportive, teasing, but his tone was humorless. "Let me know if you cry."

"I won't," Rommath told him.

And with that, the prince turned to leave. Neither of them said farewell, or even so much as waved goodbye, and if Rommath was correct in assuming, he'd guess it was because neither of them knew how.

Rommath didn't move until Kael had disappeared from sight, and then it was back to Telestra's.

 _Back home_ , he had to correct himself. It just didn't feel right.

* * *

Rommath stomped the snow out of his boots on the front step, kicked them off in the doorway, and stared aimlessly at his stockings.

 _Three-hundred twenty-two cobblestones away_. He furrowed his brow.  _Not horribly far._

He stood there for a moment, sullen and silent, contemplating what he should do next. It had been much easier when Kael had been here; all he'd ever had to do was nod and follow, and try to keep up.

After a few minutes of thorough reasoning, he decided that he must continue as normal. There was no call for a moment of silence, or a night of vigil, no need to fill his head with memories and sentiments.

He didn't need to write out a eulogy. Kael wasn't dead.

Just gone.

No, not even gone—only three-hundred twenty-two cobblestones away.

"Normal" was afternoon lessons, which should've begun an hour ago and ran until dinner. Telestra would've already been pacing the borders of her living room, perhaps reading from a tome or demonstrating some new spell. Rommath would've gathered his books and his notes, taken the seat on the left, with Kael to the right.

_Normally._

But it was becoming readily apparent that he wasn't going to proceed as normal whether he wanted or not, not yet leastways. Telestra wasn't in the living room, waving her mug as she lectured. Her materials weren't strewn about the room, scattered across the floor and cluttering the endtables. The room was just as neat as she'd left it last evening, and she was nowhere to be found.

The kitchen, too, was empty, and the library, the study, the spare room—everywhere Rommath searched, he was met with silence.

Her bedroom was the last place he thought to look, since a closed door was generally her more polite way of warning them that she had no desire to be disturbed, but when he passed the room, he was startled to find the door wide open, like she couldn't have even been bothered to leave it cracked.

Here, he found Telestra: lying  _on_  her bed, not in, eyes wide and unblinking as she stared at a crack in the ceiling.

He cleared his throat and shifted his weight in the doorway, but she didn't appear to notice. "M-Miss Telestra?" he tried. "Shall I close the door?"

She bolted upright like she'd just woken from some horrid dream and smoothed out her robes in a hurry, looking quite embarrassed of herself.

And Rommath could immediately see why—those twitching lips, those red-rimmed eyes—but she looked to be putting tremendous effort into holding herself together, so he didn't say a word.

"Light, child, you startled me," she muttered, once she'd found her voice. "I didn't know you'd be back so soon."

"I called for you," he offered. "I was looking everywhere."

She shook her head, running a hand through her hair like it could possibly help the mess it'd become. "It would be perfectly acceptable to raise your voice every now and again, you know," she told him. "Did you help him unpack? I thought it would take longer."

"No," he said with a shrug. "But there wasn't much to do, and I didn't want to be too late to lessons—"

Telestra stopped him with a laugh, harsh and humorless. "No lessons today," she said quickly. "I'm feeling a bit under the weather. Must be coming down with something."

 _Dehydration, perhaps_. Briefly, he wondered just how long she'd been crying. But he said nothing still, politely ignoring the tears that gathered at the corners of her eyes.

"My voice is a little hoarse," she continued, eager to convince him. "And my head's been throbbing since breakfast. I just—" She made a helpless gesture with her hand, then shrugged and fell silent.

Rommath lowered his gaze respectfully, in case she couldn't help but cry. "It's fine…" He shuffled awkwardly a little longer, trapped in a limbo of sorts. "I'll just...I don't know…"

"Well, come in," she said curtly. "It's painful to watch you try to get comfortable, you poor fool. Can't do anything unless you're told."

He felt a smile tugging at his lips. "You always used to tell me it was a nice thing." He took a hesitant step forward, then another when she patted the edge of her bed encouragingly. "Always used to say it made me a good little boy."

"Don't—" she started.

He froze in his tracks, suddenly fearful.

She shook her head. "No, no, come sit," she amended. "But none of that 'when I was young' or 'way back when,' please. Just...not right now."

It sounded like a reasonable request. He smoothed out the covers as he took a seat beside her, and though he flinched when she laid her head against him, to his credit, he stayed put. "I'm going to miss him too," he told her.

"Poor dear, I'm sure you will," she said, reaching for his hand. "I doubt you'll find my company quite so pleasing."

"You're a delight," he assured her. "We'll have a grand time, you and I. You can move all your things to the attic and you can be my new roommate."

She grimaced at that. "Kael'thas says you talk more in your sleep than you do awake," she told him. "And I rather like my bed."

That was all right with him; the woman wore the scent of wine like perfume anyhow. Today, it smelled like an ancient bottle of red—perhaps two. "Suit yourself."

Then silence. Comfortable silence, at least, but silence still.

Immediately, his mind began to wander. It was astonishing how quickly his thoughts found their way to Kael. Like metal to a magnet.

"I worry for him," he remarked absently. "He'll be lonely. He hates to be lonely, you know."

Telestra chuckled into his robes, apparently sharing none of Rommath's fear. "That's absurd," she told him. "I did teach him how to treat a girl. He can play the elegant gentleman, when he sees fit. No, I don't think he'll have any trouble finding company."

"Oh," said Rommath.

He felt strangely disappointed. Perhaps that wasn't the right word, just the best he could come up with. He didn't  _want_  Kael to be lonely, of course, but he'd always treasured his duty as the prince's companion.

"He said he would visit often," he offered, more for his own reassurance than Telestra's. "Maybe even every day."

She laughed lightly, but it sounded worn-out and threadbare, and lasted much too long to seem natural. Too long, until the laughs became sniffles and the sniffles sobs, hoarse and hiccupping. She muffled them in Rommath's shoulder as she collapsed against him, whimpering.

"Miss Telestra…" They were idle words; he couldn't comfort her. "I have no idea what you're trying to say…"

"Handkerchief," she repeated.

Clearer, but no less confusing. He supposed that was normal around this time of day, since he should've been about halfway through mid-afternoon lecture. So at least that much was familiar.

He winced, shaking his head in apology. "I didn't bring one, I'm sorry—"

"N-No, he gave…" She let the thought trail away as her hands searched the bedsheets, groping blindly until they found their place beneath her pillow. "This," she clarified, clutching a silken handkerchief—embroidered with Kael's initials. "He gave it to me last night, told me I'd need it. Look, he even got it monogrammed. The little bastard."

Rommath had to smile at that, weak but true.

"I shouldn't, really," she muttered. "It's foolish of me, I know."

He cocked his head, confused once more.

"Shouldn't cry," she went on. Nevertheless, her voice trembled. "It's not my place. I'm not his mother. I shouldn't cry...should I?"

Rommath shrugged, his brows knitted in a curious frown. He didn't see why it mattered, in truth. "I guess it's reasonable," he told her. "You were the closest we had most times, either of us."

"Me?" she asked, sounding incredulous. "I was never a mother. I never read to either of you, never kissed you goodnight. In fact, I had a tendency to disappear after dinner, if I recall correctly—I'll make no guarantees, was always drinking—and then I wouldn't return till morning. Afternoon, sometimes. And I'd draw the curtains to keep out the sun, and we'd have lessons in the dark,  _silent_  lessons if I could get away with it, just assigning you something to read while I tried to sleep through my headaches…"

He laughed a little, though it was strained. "And Light, you're every bit as lecherous as they say," he told her. "Remember when you used to lock us out of the house when you had...ah,  _company_...?"

"See?" She breathed a sigh, disheartened, but steadier than her last. "I haven't earned the right to cry over him like he was my own."

"What about how you used to make us cakes for our birthdays?  _R_ _eal_  cakes," Rommath added. "And you wrapped presents for us so we had something to open every year. And you used to let us help cook breakfast on Saturdays. You  _must_  remember that—I would measure the flour and Kael would stir…"

Telestra smiled, but there was an ache just below. "I never had an apprentice as young as him," she said. "I preferred older students—they learn quicker,  _graduate_  quicker, I might add. You don't get quite so attached." She slipped her arms around him now, clasping her hands on the other side of him so he had no hopes of getting free. "But the king offered me an  _enormous_  sum of money to take his son in, and I simply couldn't refuse such a fortune, so I agreed—reluctantly."

She was quiet a moment, and Rommath thought he might chide her playfully for breaking her own rule, but it seemed neither the time nor the place.

"He was so young," she continued. "First thing he asked when his brother dropped him off was where I kept my toys. His father hadn't let him bring any from Silvermoon, and he was horrified when he found out that I had none. He always wanted to play with me—puzzles, tag, make-believe—but I never…" She gave him a helpless shrug. "I was absolutely terrified when your father wrote to me. Couldn't have even been more than a year later. He certainly made a compelling argument, but I still had my reservations. I was going to decline, even drafted a few letters planning what I might say, telling him how I had my hands full with Kael."

She stopped. Apparently she was content to leave it there.

"Why'd you decide to take me?" he pressed, curious.

"The little brat went through my drawers," she explained. "Said he was looking for a comb or a tie for his hair, but I think he was just being nosy. He found your father's request, and he was so thrilled—Light, I've never seen him quite so cheerful, not even to this day. Went on and on about how the two of you would be best friends—the _absolute_  best—as close as any two could be. How was I supposed to say no then?"

He had no words, but he thought a smile might suffice, rare as they were from him. It was quiet, then...for a moment, nothing but silence and the occasional stifled sob.

But it didn't last—she was falling apart again before either were even aware, pulling at his robes as she searched for a dry spot. "You're going to leave too," she moaned. "How long now—what, a year? Not even. Then you're gone. Both my boys…"

Rommath patted her hair awkwardly, having not the slightest idea how to comfort her. "Well, maybe don't think about that," he suggested. "I'll try to learn extra slowly, just for you."

"No. No. Your father would have my name torn to shreds." She sounded adamant now, though her voice still wavered. "I'll be fine. I'll just...adjust my fluid intake so I'm just physically unable to cry, and I'll...I'll…" Straightening abruptly, she pressed her sleeves to her eyes as if to dam up the tears. "I'm not fine. You should go."

He frowned at her, some mix of curiosity and concern.

"Go," Telestra insisted. She smoothed out the silk of her robes, one last stubborn attempt to compose herself, then did the same to Rommath, patting the wrinkles out of the fabric where she'd bunched it up in her fingers. "I'm not done with my grieving, and it only gets uglier onward. I'd prefer you didn't see."

He nodded, though not his usual. This one was hesitant, and a spark of disobedience—however brief—did cross his mind.

But she pressed her lips taut and sharpened her stare, and he was defeated.

"You'll let me know when—ah,  _if_ —you need me…?" he asked meekly.

"Of course, child," she said, offering him a tight smile. "Go study. Test tomorrow evening."

He left quietly then, taking care not to make a sound as he crossed the room, reluctant to break this fresh silence. If he couldn't comfort Telestra, he'd comfort himself. Or study; the two often seemed to coincide.

But neither seemed likely. He'd no sooner started on his way to the loft, halfway up the ladder when he realized it was hopeless.

One look at the mattress across from his—stripped bare, empty—and he knew with certainty he'd get nothing accomplished up here.

Likewise, he found the living room far too familiar. That crude carving of the prince's name in his old desk made Rommath anxious, and his throat tightened every time he imagined Kael sprawled across the loveseat next to him, waiting for Rommath to glance away for just long enough to tickle the end of his ear with his quillpen.

The prince was everywhere.

So he fled to the spare room instead. Recently converted from Telestra's old study, it'd been given a new life as a storage space—a junk drawer, of sorts.

And now it was his spot—his alone. Perhaps the only place in the entire tower that didn't look wrong without Kael.

Here, he studied until his eyes grew heavy.

Here he slept, slouched over a tabletop between books and baubles.

Here, he dreamt, faded memories of him and the prince.

And it was here that he woke, aching.


	6. -V-

_-V-_

The sky was ash-gray and angry, all stormclouds strewn across the horizon by a cold wind that smelled of rain. Not a good forecast, but he'd already prayed for the weather to hold up. By this point, there was little more he could do.

His knees ached terribly, promising quite a downpour, but he swallowed his doubts with another sip from his waterskin, shivering when it hit his belly. Too cold for his taste. All of this was, really, but the prince had a peculiar idea of perfection, where the world was chilled, prickling with a coat of frost.

And this was it.

Lordamere Lake, in its entirety, would've been a daunting task to the most skilled of sorcerers, let alone a fresh-faced young mage. But an inlet, just a short stretch of shoreline, a couple hundred yards, perhaps—that was manageable.

He'd woken before the sun that morning, too eager to sleep, and arrived at the lake's western shore just before dawn to begin his work.

By the time the sun had reached its height, the inlet gleamed like glass, frozen several inches thick, and the shore's sands had disappeared beneath a coat of snow, crisp and clean. He'd spent half an hour trying to come up with the right consistency—fine and powdery, but not so loose that it couldn't be packed tight in a snowball, in case he was feeling childish—before dropping a foot of it on the beach.

A good distance from the water's edge lay a "picnic," in the loosest form of the word. Just a some wine propped on a blanket; Dalaran noir, which the prince had named his favorite on several occasions, and the comforter from his bed, because he hadn't enough gold leftover after the wine for a brand new one. It was worth all of it, of course—the time, the money, the effort.

 _This_ was Kael's perfection.

 _Light, he's going to love it_.

Rommath wasn't prone to giddiness or giggles, but here, alone, he allowed himself a grin. He could count the moments he'd made himself proud on one hand, but this put him at five.

Composing himself with a drawn-out sigh, he sipped at his water once more and muttered the words of a teleportation spell beneath his breath, taking him back to the center of the city in a flash of violet light. The trip to Kael's apartment from the Eventide wasn't far at all—only two-hundred sixteen cobblestones, by Rommath's count—but he would've bet he made it in three minutes flat, spurred on by excitement.

And that impending storm, of course, which would've damned all his plans.

But he found himself hesitating once he reached the door.

He'd sucked in a huge breath, Kael's name on his lips, but he couldn't bring the words up from his lungs. They lodged in his throat, and though his heart pounded wild and out of control against his ribcage, seeming to jar his whole body with each beat, he couldn't shake them free.

He'd come up with about half a greeting—maybe three-quarters, but that was generous—when the door swung open, and the prince nearly ran right into him.

"Rommath?" Kael had to grab hold of his shoulders just to keep him from toppling over. "Were you planning on coming in?"

Rommath gave his head a quick shake; there was no time to struggle with his words.

"Oh," said the prince, smoothing out his robes. "You were just going to stand there admiring my doormat, I suppose?"

"Happy birthday," Rommath blurted. It wasn't an answer, but at least it was coherent. "I've got a gift for you—down by the lakeshore, you can't miss it."

The prince blinked at him, startled. "I, um—I'm not really dressed for travel."

"That's all right," Rommath told him. "It's not far. We ought to hurry, though, before it rains. Would be a shame, I worked on it all—"

Kael wouldn't look him in the eye. "I can't," he said softly. "I wish I could, Rommath, really, but I'm late enough as it is."

"Late?" He stared at him a moment, from his restless gaze to his splendid robes, all the way down to his shoes—new shoes. The prince must've had a special occasion planned. "O-Oh, I'm...I'm sorry. I should've—"

"It's just a girl," the prince told him. "I promised her a date. Today was the only day that worked with my schedule."

He nodded slowly, gaining momentum as he went along. "That sounds...fun."

Kael shrugged and tucked his keyring back into his robes. "Sure, it should be," he said. "Look, I've got to meet with Antonidas tomorrow afternoon, and depending how that goes, maybe the next evening, but I'll stop by your place if I've got a moment, how about that? We're long overdue for a visit."

The nod came easily this time. They most certainly were. But they'd always seen each other on their birthdays.

Kael grinned, somewhat reassured. "Good," he said, pulling Rommath into a stiff hug. "I'm looking forward to it."

Rommath returned the smile, however sober, and waved his farewell, watching as Kael disappeared into the stairwell. He lingered there a moment, until he was certain the prince was gone, and then headed on, solemn and straight-faced the whole way home.

* * *

Rommath was fond of his house, but he'd never considered it anything to gawk at.

It was a tiny thing, taller than it was wide and squashed uncomfortably between two of similar make. Cramped, but better than the newer apartments that lined Dalaran's southern walls, stacked several stories high and half a block wide to accommodate the city's growing population.

There was a sort of simplicity about the place that demanded appreciation over time—a simple red door and two of the simplest red windows he'd ever seen on either side, with an assortment of potted plants on each sill that had been just as simple until they had simply died due to Rommath's neglect, and one simple (if not decrepit) mailbox at the front step.

It was "quaint" at best, but nothing awe-inspiring, not by any stretch of the word.

That said, he was reasonably startled when he was greeted by a pair of robed figures in the midst of a thorough inspection of his home, like it was the single most interesting thing they'd seen in their lives. He recognized him as he drew closer—siblings, childhood friends of his and the prince's.

"Liora, Astalor," he said quietly. "What can I do for you?"

They froze where they stood—the girl wading through his hedges and the lad cringing on his doorstep, halfway through what must've been his nineteenth knock.

"Rommath!" Liora had picked her way through the thorns and snarls, arriving at his side in the blink of an eye, all long legs and grace. She'd studied magic just like her brother, but she'd grown up lean and limber, looking more like a huntress by now.

Observant people asked why she hadn't joined up with the Farstriders.

Smart people did not.

She was either immensely prideful or cripplingly self-conscious of her spellcasting, and when paired with a thin skin and a sharp tongue—well, her counterspells were rarely kind. But she'd always spared Rommath, ever since they were young, was never anything but sweet.

"We've been searching for you all afternoon," she told him. "You've been keeping busy, hm?"

Rommath tensed as she threw her arms around him in a hug, holding his breath until she took a step back.

"I can't even remember the last time we spoke."

He laughed nervously, but he might've forgotten to smile, which likely ruined the effect. "To...ah, to what do I owe the pleasure…?"

"Have you seen Kael'thas?" Astalor asked curtly. He'd yet to move from Rommath's doorstep, and gave no indication that he intended to do so. "Can't find him."

Rommath's expression turned bitter. "If you've come in search of Kael, you'll be sorely disappointed."

He didn't even apologize; he was disappointed too.

"Of course not, no," Liora assured him. "No, no, we just came to extend the invitation. I've got a table reserved at the Legerdemain. A surprise, for the prince."

Rommath's "surprise for the prince" must've been melting in the afternoon heat by now.

"He's already got plans," he told her. "A nice gesture, though. I'm sure he'd appreciate it."

Liora frowned at him, lips parted in the faintest attempt at speech.

"Damnation," said Astalor, trotting down the steps. "What a tragedy. Terrible, really." He was at the curb and starting down the street before anyone could say a word. "Well, then. Shall we head home, sister?"

"What?" she exclaimed.

"Home," Astalor called over his shoulder, as if she'd simply misheard. "I've got studying to do."

Liora scoffed at him. "Fuck your studying, boy. I paid a pretty sum of gold for those seats. Light, these are the best drinks in Dalaran. You're not going to ditch just to spend the evening with a bunch of dusty old tomes."

His reply was too soft to hear, but Astalor made no attempt to further mask his displeasure, returning to his sister's side with a grudging sigh.

Satisfied, Liora faced Rommath with a grin. "It'll be a good time," she told him. "I guarantee it."

In all honesty, he thought he would've preferred the dusty tomes, but he couldn't find the courage to say so.

But perhaps the distraction would do him good. The general consensus seemed to consider drinking till the small hours of the night among the most efficient methods of erasing memories, right up there next to dark magic and head trauma. Out of the three, he wasn't quite certain which he preferred, but he supposed the effects of drinking were at least less permanent.

He took a breath. "Sure. I'd love to."

"Excellent!" Liora clasped her hands together, giving him a smile so bright he almost had to squint. "Nine o'clock, Rom. Don't be late."

* * *

Rommath had indeed arrived late, in spite of Liora's warning. The tavern was already full to capacity by the time he finally made it, and wading through the densely-packed drunkards was probably the most challenging test of will he'd undergone since his apprenticeship. Locating his company proved even harder.

After a half-hour or so spent searching in vain, he spotted Astalor seated across the room alone with three glasses of ale. His own contained...significantly less, but if that scowl of his was any indicator, the alcohol had done little to improve his mood.

Rommath pressed a path through the crowd—some of them were even sober enough to spare him a glare as he made his way across the floor, relieved beyond belief just to see a familiar face.

Astalor had the courtesy to acknowledge him with a nod, but he seemed more interested in the dwindling contents of his glass. "Damn," he said. "You decided to show after all. I'd just about convinced Liora it was a lost cause."

"Sorry to disappoint," said Rommath, shrugging apologetically.

Astalor grunted in reply, tapping his nails idly against the rim of his glass as he stared up at him. "Gonna stand there all evening?" he asked finally. "Wouldn't recommend it, don't you have bad ankles or something?"

Rommath adjusted his robes as he took a seat across from Astalor, not bothering to correct him. Terse as he was, Rommath had always rather liked Astalor. Though soft-spoken, the lad's tongue was sharper than a blood-tempered blade, and he had a mind to match it. Two years Rommath's junior and he was already one test away from graduating his apprenticeship.

More than anything, Rommath appreciated Astalor's taste in conversation, which had two categories: his studies, or silence.

"You...ah, you have an exam coming up?" Rommath asked—he wasn't quite brave enough to speak above the din, but he wasn't quite brave enough to weather the uncomfortable silence either.

Astalor's eyes never left his drink. "Yep. Exit examination for my apprenticeship."

"I wouldn't trouble myself over it too much," Rommath told him. He most certainly did when he'd stood in Astalor's shoes, but he didn't think he should add that. "They're not nearly as hard as everyone makes them out to be."

Astalor just stared harder at his ale, swishing it around a couple times as if to make it seem more interesting. "Liora failed hers twice before the Council officially recognized her as a mage."

Rommath could've offered him some choice words regarding Liora's studying habits (or lack thereof), but he thought a sympathetic glance might improve his chances at a pleasant conversation.

"Hmpf," Astalor sighed. "It's no matter. I'm going home the instant she tries to disappear with you."

"What?"

"Said that I'm just going to leave whenever the two of you decide to head to the back for some privacy. Word of warning, the cots creak if you don't have them up against a wall or something."

Rommath swallowed dryly. "I—I'm sorry?"

"Why, it's fine, but thank you," Astalor said with a smirk. "Not that I blamed you for getting me stuck here or anything. Well, only a little."

"I—what?"

"I mean, I doubt she'd have kept our plans if she didn't want to sl— _Liora_!" His eyes lit up when they fell upon the girl—or rather, the bottle nestled in her arm and the trio of long-necked chalices crossed in the other. "You brought us wine! How lovely—that ale tasted like piss, take my word for it. What'd you get?"

"Dalaran noir," Liora answered, but the words were rushed, hurried. Her gaze was fixed on Rommath.

But he wasn't paying her any mind, not really. He was wondering if the prince's noir was still sitting there in the wicker basket where he'd left it, perfectly centered on his bedspread. The sunset must've looked so beautiful coming through the snow-capped branches. The sun always looked its best after a storm. He bet the whole inlet had turned to gold.

It was Liora's voice that brought him out of his reverie, and he was grateful; he hadn't come here to think about the prince. Quite the opposite, in fact.

" _Rommath_ …" She spoke his name like it was her last breath, seemed to lean into it. But she didn't hug him this time, at least. "You came."

He rose to greet her, offering her a tight smile as he reached to help her with the glasses. "I said I would," he said. Somehow, he managed a nervous laugh, but he was the only one who seemed impressed.

"I was worried you'd stood me up," she said softly. Jokingly, but he could tell there was plenty of truth to her words. "What kept you?"

His smile became a rictus. "Got lost."

Not entirely dishonest. He'd gotten a little lost in his mind, if that counted. A minor crisis had kept him stalled on his doorstep, wherein he'd very nearly decided that head trauma might've actually been the most painless way to clear his thoughts. He wasn't even sure how long he'd stood there clutching at the doorknob, until he'd finally convinced himself that loneliness was indeed the problem and not the solution, and decided a night out would do him good.

"Well," said Liora, grinning, "I'm glad you found your way." She took her seat beside Rommath—too close, but he said nothing—and immediately made herself busy serving up drinks. "What a night this'll be. Pity Kael couldn't make it, hm?"

Astalor scoffed. "Why, because he's got the evening to himself?" The lad pushed his hair aside and downed half the glass with little more than a twitch of his lips. "I don't pity him in the least."

"Oh, please." Liora rolled her eyes as she poured herself a glass, and one for Rommath. "I don't think he's ever spent an evening to himself in his life."

"Mmpf," said Astalor through another sip of wine. "Sharing the night with a dozen dickss or tits, then. Maybe some combination thereof. I don't feel an ounce of sorrow for him either way."

"He's got a date," Rommath blurted, his voice loud even to his own ears. "I—I mean, that's what he told me, is all. So I don't think he's going to be...sharing the night...or anything."

They both laughed at that.

"Sounds like you don't know the prince," Liora told him.

He stuttered out his thanks as she handed him his drink and looked away, his silent self once more, keeping his commentary to himself while Astalor went on about how everyone would want to bed him if  _he_  were a prince. Liora was laughing and encouraging him to have more—the wine was doing its job now, raising both his spirits and his voice—and glancing Rommath's way every so often, as if to make sure he was looking.

He was, but not really. His thoughts had drifted again. He blamed the wine—made him think of Kael's present, which made him think of Kael. Which made him bitter—not at Kael, but at himself, because it wasn't his place to care but he couldn't stop—and that made him drink, bitter wine for his bitter thoughts.

With no sun in sight and no clock to track the hours, Rommath found himself telling time by the glasses they'd collected. The wine had gone quickly, and they'd moved on to harder liquor at Astalor's request, but Rommath stopped drinking after the first round. It was a different kind of bitter, burned his insides and brought tears to his eyes, and he thought it only worsened his mood.

It wasn't until the third round that anyone seemed to remember him, and that was only because Astalor had disappeared to find some hedges in need of watering, and Liora  _had_  to notice Rommath, simply by default.

"You've hardly said a word all night," she said, her voice a good deal softer now.

Rommath raised a brow, shrugging his apology. "That's unusual?"

Liora laughed as she scooted her chair closer, nudging him playfully. "Are you enjoying yourself, then? However you go about that?"

"I'm having a grand time."

He tried to mean it, really, but he couldn't even convince himself.

"Is something wrong?" she asked. "Are you upset? You—you don't have to stay, Rom…I can take you back home, if you want…"

That would've sounded delightful, if she weren't wearing a watery stare like there'd just been a death in the family.

"No, of course not," he told her. "No, just...I don't know…" He tapped his nails on the tabletop until he came up with an excuse. "It's just...odd, for me. Celebrating Kael's birthday...without Kael, you know?"

Liora tilted her head to the side, considering this. "I suppose, yes."

"I just expected...I don't know." Rommath cursed his tongue beneath his breath; his words were clumsy enough when he was sober. "I thought he'd want to be there."

"Here?" Liora asked.

Rommath was silent a moment. First while he tried to figure out how to explain, then again after he decided it wasn't worth the trouble. It felt childish anyhow.

"I'm sure he'd be here if he could," she offered. "And I'm sure he'd want us to have a nice time anyway."

Her platitudes sickened him, but he dredged up a smile for her, nodding in agreement. "I don't doubt it."

"He'd want us to drink till we're dizzy," she said wryly, pushing his drink toward him. "I think he'd want us to forget about him entirely."

Rommath had a hard time believing Kael would want anyone to forget about him, but he lost all remaining abilities to communicate when he realized how close Liora was leaning.

She was going to kiss him.

It wasn't a matter of whether he wanted to kiss her or not—he didn't, and he doubted he was persuasive enough to convince himself that he did—it was simply a matter of whether he would.

On the one hand, she was bright and beautiful, a striking young lass, the type foolish young lads tripped over. And she wanted to help him forget about Kael.

But on the other hand, he didn't think he really wanted to forget about Kael.

He needed to. But he didn't—

He'd taken too long in deciding, so Liora decided for him.

She didn't kiss him, much to his surprise—leaned right past his lips to his ear, dangerously close, so he could hear when she whispered, "I think we should get a room, don't you?"

Rommath said nothing, rather dazed and honestly a little nauseous.

"Come on!" She yanked at his sleeve. "Before Astalor gets back!"

Rommath said nothing, because he was still just as dazed and nauseous as before. Thinking of an excuse required too much effort, aggravated a headache he hadn't even realized he'd had until now.

When she got to her feet and reached for his hand, he took it, because he simply didn't know what else he was supposed to do. When she led him toward the stairs, he followed, because he simply didn't know how to do anything else. When she found a vacant room and pulled him inside, giggling and swaying all the while, he decided he'd never had a choice in the first place.

"Isn't that better?" she asked, offering him a smile.

"Astalor—" he started, struggling for words. "Won't he be worried?"

Liora nodded as she listened, surprisingly attentive since she didn't seem to give a damn about her brother. She was watching his lips, he realized, and he was quick to silence himself once it dawned on him, just in time for her to pitch forward and—

The kiss was little more than he expected, which was...nothing.

Warm, wet, her breath hot against his lips. He wasn't swept away or lost in the moment. He wasn't breathless or wide-eyed, and the only color that stung his cheeks was the color of shame. There was no tug in his gut, no fire in his belly, no fumbling loss of control as his fingers searched blindly along the back of her dress for laces to loosen.

His movements were quick and precise, almost mechanical.  _Mechanical_. That was it. That was exactly how they felt. He should've stopped when it dawned on him.

But he didn't. He blundered on, against the door, along the wall, until he came to a clumsy stop at the edge of the cot in the corner.

And once he was there, she didn't seem keen on letting him go. She was shifting her weight now, pinning him down, a knee on either side of him. Pressing closer, uncomfortably closer. He wanted to squirm, pull away when she rode her hips against his, but he swallowed his unease with a deep breath and made himself smirk at the gasp she gave in reply.

 _It's only natural_.

Supposed to be, leastways.

But nothing about it felt natural, not remotely so. On the contrary, it felt quite obviously wrong. Everything about it.

Her lips against his skin, nipping at his jaw and trailing lower—too soft, too gentle. The kisses—insistent, but not quite forceful, lacking urgency. Her fingers as they moved beneath his robes—touches too light, almost feathery. She tugged at his laces—didn't tear.

Even her nails in his back didn't do enough—digging against his shoulders to pull him closer, yes, he liked that, but they were... _sharp_ , like needles.

They left pinpricks. He wanted daggers.

Pain to counter his contempt.

But those delicate fingers were far from shy; she had his robes spread across the sheets behind him in a matter of moments, and then her hands were gripping at his shoulders, urging him back like the soft words she kept breathing in his ear. He couldn't make them out—or perhaps simply didn't care to—but she spoke in the soothing tones of reassurance, tender as she laid him back against the blankets.

They were cheap. Rough like burlap, scratched and scraped his back.

"Rommath?" Her voice was hoarse, rough like the sheets, but suspiciously loud, as if to mask her concern.

He made a strangled noise—tried to swallow and clear his throat in the same breath—and gave his head a shake. "Too much to drink," he suggested.

She smirked at him, looking equal parts confused and amused. "Poor boy," she cooed, teeth against his ear. " _Relax_."

Liora jerked upright and gave him a sweet smile, if unnaturally wide. She was gentle as she reached for his hand, but he was limp, entirely indifferent when she lifted it, pressed it to her cheek. She held him there a moment, her gaze warm, tinged with worry but hopeful yet.

A loving gesture—meaningful, he supposed, though it meant nothing to him. Just the warmth of a blush against his fingertips—hot to the touch, his hands like ice.

He made an effort to run a hand through her hair, searching for a spark of emotion—any would do—and he was just as gentle as she, with a hesitance that could've been mistaken for tenderness. Distantly, he thought he wanted to pull, to knot his fingers in her locks and yank,  _hard_ , but her hair was gossamer: finer than spider silk and fairer than dawnlight. Somewhere closer, he thought he wanted to appreciate it—the texture, the color, anything—but he couldn't even bring himself to do that.

The poor lass.

Gorgeous, with lively eyes and a body that surely left nothing to be desired, but he could admire none of it. He longed to—desperately, he longed to. He longed to for  _her_ , because she'd wasted no time making her own longings clear. He longed to for  _him_ , because he was lonesome and aching and bitter, sick of longing for what he couldn't have rather than what he already did.

If everyone was telling the truth, this was the cure. Kael, Telestra, the slurring barkeeps who tipped the waitresses to stay late, the shadowy ladies that prowled the streets after dark in their low-cut dresses—if they all had the right idea, then  _this_  was what he needed.

And he wouldn't have it. This was just like him, of course—even as an elfling, sick in bed, he'd never swallowed his tonics willingly. Always clenched his teeth and hid his face against the pillows, never took it without a struggle. Perhaps it was simply in his nature to suffer.

He couldn't do this.

"L-Liora—"

She shushed him before he could say any more—not that he'd planned that far ahead—pressing her lips against his once more. Only briefly this time, for her intentions were lower: over his collarbone, across his chest, pausing at his ribs, then onward to his stomach, his waist, hips—

" _Liora_."

She adjusted herself a little so she wasn't bent so awkwardly, frozen with her hands tangled in the ties of his breeches and her lips hovering not an inch farther. Curiosity was written plain on her face, in the furrow between her brows and her narrow-eyed stare. "Rommath…?"

"I-I can't," he stammered.

"Can't what?"

Words were difficult. Even more so than usual. " _This_." It came out strangled. "Can't do this."

Her curiosity became suspicion. "Do…what?"

"You," he blurted. "Er, I-I didn't mean—well…"

All at once, the heat left the room.

Gone was Rommath's shame, traded for fear—sharp, stabbing. Gone was Liora's blush and gone was her lust.

For an instant there was a void, and then cold filled its place. Her gaze was frigid, her words deep-frozen like the peaks of Alterac. "I don't understand."

"I'm sorry," he said. He was wincing now, pathetic. "I'm so sorry—"

"That's it?" Her tone was not sharp or accusatory, just cool—indifference that didn't quite match her scathing glare. "That's all?"

"I'm sorry," he tried again. In case she hadn't heard him before.

That pretty face of hers twisted in the briefest of scowls—short-lived and intense like an apprentice's fire rune. She snatched up her clothes, shaking her head the whole while, and pulled them on in such a hurry that she got the dress on backwards, with the ties in the front.

Rommath didn't care to point it out.

Never had he wished for just an ounce of tact the way he did now, with all the thoughts that raced through his mind, multiplying until his head was full to the brim, ached like it might split at the seams. He wanted to apologize again, in case she hadn't gotten the point by now, wanted to explain, wanted to assure her that he'd not meant to offend her, it was just that...well, troubles always seemed to be contagious, whether or not by intention.

But that's what all of this was—how it had begun in the first place. Wants that he couldn't have.

All he managed was, again, "Liora…"

She was on her feet now, slipping on her shoes and stumble-staggering toward the door.

"Ho-Hold on...please." He sat upright, intent on looking her in the eye at the very least, if his words failed him—they often did. "It's not...um...it's not you, I j-just thought…"

_What's wrong with you?_

The girl made no attempt to swallow her anger this time around, her expression ugly with rage. Her lips twitched like she was fighting a snarl and her cheeks burned redder than before—passion of a different breed. "Go fuck yourself." She paused, considering her words for a moment. "I'm sure you'll be hard-pressed to find another girl to do it for you."

Rommath was beginning to suspect his problem was that he was trying to find girls in the first place. But he didn't think that was something either of them really wanted to hear.

Those were her parting words; she left with a conclusive nod and a slam that made the door frame crack in protest. He didn't expect to hear anything from her any time soon.

He left in a hurry. Had no reason to stay there. He tipped the barkeep on the way out for his short use of the room and was on his way. Had to leave.

The mess had begun with his present; bitter logic dictated that the present's end meant an end to the mess.

He was going to throw a tantrum.

* * *

Someone had done his work for him.

He expected there to be damage, of course. Nature was not kind to the unnatural, and he was sure all those carefully crafted icicles of his had wept in the sunshine once the storm had subsided. But this was something more.

Just short of ruination. Half the inlet looked as though it'd been caught downwind of a volcanic eruption.

The pines at the edge of the clearing wore wreaths of smoke, their needles reduced to smoldering stubble. Most of the underbrush was burnt bare much the same, the skeletal branches beneath left blackened, so brittle that they seemed to shiver in the still air. And the snow that'd taken him so long to perfect—well, it must've disappeared somewhere in the swampy mess of slush and ash before him.

He thought the sight should've fed his anger, all his efforts reduced—quite literally—to ash but he felt...nothing.

Vaguely, he realized he was standing ankle-deep in a puddle of gray water, and his toes had gone numb, but that was the only thought in his mind. It was quite lonely.

At the center of the clearing, cross-legged on a singed blanket—Rommath was going to need a new bedspread—was one soot-streaked Kael'thas Sunstrider, dark and brooding.

Rommath was hesitant to approach. Distantly, he thought he was surprised to see the prince, and he might've even wondered what he was doing here, but he bit his tongue before he could ask. He was starting to get an idea, and he wasn't keen on confirming his suspicions.

In the end, he only took a step forward because he was sick of standing in his puddle. "Kael…"

The prince's head jerked his way, brows pulled in a frown. "Rommath?" He squinted hard against the dying light. "You look terrible."

He rubbed his palms nervously against his robes, still creased from Liora's grip. "Likewise," he managed. It was meant to be teasing, but it lacked conviction, his voice soft and eyes downcast.

Kael laughed nonetheless, the brooding gone from his features. "I don't doubt it," he said. "I might've outdone myself."

Rommath could see the shine of sweat along his hairline, pale and silver in the moonlight. "You did an...excellent job," he noted. "Very thorough."

"I should say the same," Kael told him, his smile every bit as bitter in the dusk. "It looked like the real thing. Just...perfect. The icicles were beautiful. Nice touch."

"I thought so too," he murmured. His eyes scanned the clearing; it was mostly charcoal now. "Happy birthday," he added after a moment. He almost wanted the words to be harsh, to see if they would cut Kael at all, if he cared, but his voice was mild as ever. Good. "How was your date?"

The prince made a face, something between a scowl and a grimace. "Didn't show."

Surprise stabbed its way through Rommath's indifference, left him breathless. "Didn't show?" he echoed.

Kael shrugged a shoulder, but from the way it hitched on the way down, Rommath guessed the prince cared more than he let on. "I wasn't terribly upset," he told him. "Figured that this way I could at least come see whatever had you so excited. I came as fast as I could, was hoping you'd be here and all, but—" His words were growing frantic now, rushed, tumbling free without their usual coat of lacquer. "—you were gone—you weren't here—you'd left and I'd no idea where you were and if you were coming back—"

They came to an abrupt halt as Kael's desperation turned to frustration. The prince clenched his hands into fists and glared at the mess.

The silence was painful. Rommath squirmed uncomfortably as his mind raced, searching for something to say. " _Why_?" he blurted.

The prince's shoulders stiffened and his eyes grew hard. "Why what?"

"I-I just…" He swallowed dryly. "Why'd you destroy it?"

Kael turned his scowl on him now, growing defensive. "If you're expecting me to fall on my knees and beg your forgiveness, you'll be just as disappointed as I," he muttered. "If you think I feel even an  _ounce_  of guilt, you're sorely mistaken. If you—"

"I was just curious," Rommath said quickly, flinching away from the prince's words. "I...I'm not upset."

Some of the anger seemed to lift from his features with the reassurance. "I was mad, that's all," he explained. "You were gone, and it was my fault. You did all this— _for me_ —and I didn't even bother to make an appearance for you. And I could see it—can still see it—how proud you would've looked. It was beautiful, and I was mad—at you for leaving, at myself for giving you reason." He fell quiet a moment, filling the lapse with a vague gesture to the remains of Rommath's gift. "There's nothing quite like destroying something beautiful to clear your head, you know?"

Rommath nodded. He thought he knew, at least.

"And you?" Kael asked then. "Have you come to clean up?"

He fussed with his sleeve like an awkward elfling. "Mm, no. Quite the opposite, I guess," he admitted. "I was mad too."

The prince tensed, his defenses at the ready. "Oh?"

The word was  _sharp_ , whittled to a point by suspicion.

Rommath shook his head quickly, cowed by Kael's sudden shift in mood—that same anger still lurked beneath the surface, explosive and violent, and he knew now that he must tread carefully. He knew now that Kael's anger could be turned on him. A chilling thought.

"Not at you," he assured him. He took a deep breath, less than eager to explain. "I...well, I've had a bit of a frustrating evening."

"Hmpf," said Kael, looking less than impressed.

"When I left your house, I had every intention of spending the rest of the afternoon sulking," he said. "I was headed straight for my armchair, and I was going to heat some hot water for tea, and I was going to finish my book. That's my cure-all."

The prince nodded knowingly.

"But Astalor and Liora were waiting outside my door when I got there. Were planning to take you out to dinner for your birthday, wanted to invite me." He made a dismissive gesture. "Not important, though. I told them you already had plans for the day, but Liora already had a table reserved at the tavern, and she assured us both it was the nicest spot in the whole bar, and she told us we were going with or without you. Which was foolish, of course, and I wanted to tell her, but…"

"You hate drinking," said Kael. "And people. And noise. And noisy people who've been drinking." He frowned here, but his voice was hushed. "Why'd you go?"

Rommath shrugged once more. "Was lonely."

"Mmm," Kael mused. He turned his gaze back to the splinters of ice that bobbed across Lordamere's surface, bleached white like alabaster in the light of the moon, if alabaster could float.

There was a spark in his eye—irritation, perhaps, or his anger returned, though it was impossible to tell which from Rommath's angle.

"Did you have a good time?" Kael asked.

The words were monotone, so flat Rommath barely realized they were a question, and he cringed when he did. "I…" he started, gesturing helplessly. "She bought us a round. And another. And...another. I said no—my tolerance is laughable."

Kael nodded. He knew this.

"But she had a lot. Kept drinking until she decided she wanted to kiss me." Rommath looked away now, couldn't bear to meet Kael's gaze—he could feel the scowl from where he stood, yards away. "I—I didn't want to," he said quickly. "I've never really been interested in...her...not the way she's always been interested in me. But she was insistent. Took me to the back room for some privacy, told the barkeep to put the fee on her tab and…"

Rommath swallowed. He didn't want to go on, but he'd already started. "She kissed me. A few times. I guess I didn't really kiss her back, so she kissed down my throat. And then she ran out of room there, so she undressed me—"

"Stop," Kael ordered. He had his robes clenched in his fists and staring hard at his lap. "I don't want to hear any more. Just...stop."

"Nothing happened. I...couldn't do it. The alcohol, maybe..."

"Couldn't do it?" Kael's laughter was harsh, painfully loud in the quiet of night. "What's the matter with you?"

Rommath jammed his hands in his pockets and turned away, flush with humiliation. The prince's scorn cut him deep. He thought he'd have to check for scars when he dressed himself for bed.

"It's not that hard," the prince told him. "Or—or maybe that was the problem."

Rommath took a step backwards. He didn't know where he was going, didn't imagine he'd get very far—he'd never left Kael before—but he had to get away.

Those words were pain. He didn't suppose they would've hurt were they not spoken in the silk-smooth voice of Silvermoon's youngest heir.

But they were. And oh, how they stung.

"Rommath."

He stood still, pausing briefly, only for the length of one syllable. "Yes?"

" _Rommath_ ," he said again, then once more when the younger elf attempted another retreat. "One more step and I'll burn the rest of Silverpine Forest to the ground."

Rommath came to a hesitant halt. He didn't think such a thing was within a young archmage's power, but he wasn't keen on calling his bluff.

"Come here."

Rommath cast a sidelong glance at him as he drew nearer, afraid to look him full in the face.

But if the prince saw anything, he said nothing. Maybe it was the angle, maybe it was too dark—an errant cloud had swallowed the moon. Maybe he simply didn't care to mention it, or didn't care at all.

"Closer," Kael insisted, frustration and desperation warring across his features.

Rommath did as he was told; he would never deliberately disobey an order from the prince. He bowed his head and dropped his gaze, the picture of compliance.

"I didn't finish," he said idly, with a vague gesture to the mess. "Had to stop for a drink." He chuckled nervously as he glanced at the half-empty bottle of wine, propped beside them at an odd angle and buried up to the label in slush. "I assumed you left the noir for me?"

"It's your favorite," was all he said.

His laugh wasn't painful this time—just pained. "So it is," he agreed. "Care for a drink?"

The prince stretched to reach the discarded bottle, sloshing it around a bit to estimate what remained, and held it out for Rommath to take.

He wasn't thirsty; he'd had his fill of alcohol for the night. But he nodded anyhow, didn't want to risk any further offense.

Kael smiled a little, pressing the drink into Rommath's hands. He shivered when he brought the glass to his lips—the contents were ice-cold, chilled by the snow, but the goosebumps that broke across his skin had nothing to do with the temperature.

"More." He lifted the bottle with a knuckle, nodding his encouragement as the wine poured faster past Rommath's lips. "Good boy." He took it back when it started to spill out the corner of Rommath's mouth, leaning back as he took a long drink for himself and swallowing with a sigh of satisfaction. "Doesn't taste so bitter when you've got someone to share it with," he noted. "Now, shall we finish?"

Rommath licked the remnants from his lips, dabbing them dry with his sleeve. "Beg your pardon?"

He donned he devious grin of Kael, Prince of Pranks, reminiscent of their boyhood mischief. Gulping down the rest of the wine, he wiped his mouth and conjured up a flame—dangerously volatile and blinding against the black of night. With little warning, he cocked his arm back and sent it hurtling through the darkness, toward a tree across the clearing.

It bloomed like the fire blossoms they tossed on the eve of Midsummer, bright and beautiful—left spots in Rommath's vision.

"Kael'thas!" he exclaimed, shielding his eyes from the glare. "You can't just burn—"

Another ear-splitting explosion, ice popping in protest, branches creaking in complaint.

"Didn't you come to do the same thing?"

"Well—"

Kael flexed his shoulder and effectively ignored Rommath's caution. "Come on," he told him, motioning for the younger elf to join him. "Better a few trees suffer than our friendship."

The logic was flawed, but it was logic nonetheless.

Somewhat reluctant, he summoned up a flame, staring intently as it crackled in his palm. Slowly, it grew—took the shape of an ember as he funneled his frustration into the spell, then a giant, bursting ball of fire as he poured all of his emotion into it. Anger, irritation, rage, desperation—he let it go, watched with a faint smile as it crashed into a slushy snowbank that hissed and spat and rose skyward in a pillar of steam.

It felt better. It felt...good.

The rest of the night came in flashes—glimpses of the scenery painted crimson and gold by each spark that left their hands. They burned and they charred and they scorched until the whole inlet had turned to soot, littered with smoldering debris.

By the time the embers cooled, they were each cold and damp and dirty, choking on smoke with every breath, but they were giddy as could be.

"Your hair is drenched," Kael said with a laugh.

Never had a grin been so easy, despite his chattering teeth. "One of the branches d-dumped a load of snow on m-me."

"Cold?" the prince asked.

He was off before Rommath could answer, dragging all the broken branches and half-burnt brush into a pile at the center of the clearing. With a word, he lit them aflame, hands on his hips and eyes bright as he watched his fire grow. And his shadow stretched with it, a mirror of his prideful pose dancing against the sodden ground.

The prince leapt back as the flame surged, lapping hungrily at the darkness, and Rommath flinched when their shoulders brushed—just the barest of contact. But Kael smiled at him, breathless with triumph.

Throwing an arm around him, the prince pulled him closer to muss up his wet hair.

The fire blazed higher, and Rommath watched his worries burn as their mess vanished in a plume of smoke.


	7. -VI-

- _VI_ -

Sunreaver had been silent for far too long.

His freckled forehead furrowed, and his lips were a levee, holding back words that must've weighed more than any wave. But when he opened the floodgates, nothing gushed forth.

In fact, there were just two words: "What happened?"

 _Barely a trickle_. Rommath raised a brow. "To what?"

"To Kael," said Sunreaver. "Kael the boy, not Kael the hedonistic, self-indulgent pyro."

"And I suppose you were a model citizen for all your teenage years, were you?" Rommath asked.

"I was exactly the same as I was now."

The grand magister bowed his head in mock reverence. "Light bless your poor parents."

Sunreaver scowled. "Don't avoid the subject," he told him. "Kael'thas. He  _had_  to have known."

Rommath rubbed his handkerchief between his fingertips, tracing the faded embroidery. "Known what?"

"That you loved him."

If that kerchief had been a creature, Rommath would've throttled it. But for all its worth, it was just cotton and silkthread, crumpled up in his clenched fist. "I'm getting there."

"Fine." Aethas crossed his legs, then uncrossed them, then fidgeted with his sleeve—impatient as ever. "Ought to hurry. Smells like there's a storm headed our way."

The sky was gray and angry, and the grand magister loved the irony.

Indeed, a storm was brewing. But not the kind that made his joints ache.

Aethas Sunreaver had no idea.

"Why do you do that?" asked the archmage.

"What?"

Aethas leaned closer, following his gaze. "Stare off at the skyline like that. What do you see?"

"The horizon," he said simply. "Same thing as everything else, I suppose." He blinked his vision back into focus, faintly registering the freckled face in front of him. "I always stared at the ground when I was young. It was improper, or so said my father. So I started staring at the sky instead, and he stopped cuffing my ear."

"He did that a lot?"

Rommath gave him half a shrug. "Wasn't always my ear."

Sunreaver made a face that looked something like a scowl, but a smidge more stupid, since it was Sunreaver's face.

"He wasn't a cruel man," he told him. "Before I go on, you must know."

Cold and impersonal? Certainly.

Calculating? Definitely.

Ruthlessly effective? No doubt.

"He was, ah…" Rommath stopped to search for a suitable word. "A pragmatist."

"He sounds like you," said Sunreaver, smirking.

Rommath stiffened. "I was his spitting image," he told him. "He was the second of two brothers, like myself, but a history of heart defects saw to it that he took his father's seat on the Convocation when he was barely a magister himself. I was five. And if ever he became mean, it was then."

Aethas tilted his head, curious, but he said nothing.  _Merciful Light_.

"But I always understood, even as a boy," he said softly. "I think I was the only one who did." He shrugged, no less stiff than before. "It's a lot of pressure, the sudden promotion to heir of an ancient name. Not every lump of coal turns into a diamond. Some just turns blacker, harder."

"Well, scientifically speaking—"

"Silence, Sunreaver," the grand magister snapped. "It's symbolic."

"Okay."

"I still remember when I was tiny and my father used to dress my brother and me for Hallow's End," he said, lapsing back into his storyteller's tone. "We were ghosts, every year, but we never complained. Father would shred a pair of robes for us and wrap us in scraps of silk, smeared soul dust on our eyelids so they seemed to glow. And with a word and some vague gesture with either hand, he'd have us floating inches off the ground. We were the best dressed boys in all of southern Quel'Thalas."

Aethas didn't look like he understood, but he did look like he was trying.

That was sufficient enough for Rommath. "I'm not defending him," he added. "Sometimes he was deplorable. But I loved him all the same, even when I loathed him."

* * *

Rommath didn't look to see if the address on the gate matched the one he'd written on all those letters he'd mailed from Dalaran. He didn't want to know.

His father's home looked just as he remembered it: five stories of stone that sprawled the cliff's edge, four spires wrapped in ivy that floated over the ocean beyond. A testament to their will, or their stubbornness, or both. Colorless, save the navy banners that snapped in the wind, their manor had been built from the very rock it stood upon—and didn't—sun-bleached and salt-stained to the same stark white.

Somewhere below, the ocean roared, waves reeled in by the breeze to dash themselves upon the cliffs. On a stormy day, the spray hit the third floor balcony. These were the days his mother would set him on her shoulders and whisk him outside to greet the wind and the rain—she'd shown him the  _proper_  way to enjoy the sea spray, with their arms outstretched and freckled noses crinkled in giddy grins.

His mother was gone, and so were the freckles she'd given him. He didn't ache for either, not now.

_Eight years, six months, twelve days._

She'd left through this very door. He'd watched her disappear into the dark from the window, his father's hand heavy on his shoulder.

His fingers tightened around the letter in his pocket—he'd known it was his father's stationary before he even opened the letter, because the parchment felt about as old as the man himself.

His father did not write letters; exceptions were rare.

Didn't even summon his son in his own handwriting. The calling card in Rommath's front pocket had been penned in the tight manuscript of a Baiar Sunspinner, High Secretary of the Convocation of Silvermoon and Edienor Falor'dore's personal footstool. Neither position was even remotely prestigious as the title implied.

Rommath didn't mind. A summons was a summons, no matter who'd scribbled the details on the page. Sunspinner's penmanship was pristine, at the least.

When he lifted a couple knuckles to knock at the door, he was just as surprised to see the shadow who showed up was a short one. That is to say, it couldn't have been his father at the door. And that is to say, he wasn't surprised in the slightest.

"Milord," said a sliver of a face, past a door cracked ajar. "I'll see you to my master."

Rommath had not been a lord in a long time. He straightened the cuffs of his sleeves and smoothed out his tunic, hoping he looked the part.

But he had no time for hesitation. The doorway gaped expectantly at him now, and Rommath always did as he was expected.

The interior was just the same as he'd left it, but the familiarity came in flashes.

The spiral staircases where he used to race his brother—marble polished like a mirror and just as slippery to a little lord in his stockings. He'd chipped his tooth and lost a chunk of his eyebrow on those stairs when he was four, and his father was almost sick when he saw the blood.

The flicker from the chandelier that hung from the foyer—ancient, like all the rest of the house, but this one was his father's favorite. His mother had paid to have it restored, a gift for her beloved's birthday, but she was gone before she could see it through. And so ancient it remained, half-lit and decrepit.

The saltwater air—lukewarm and damp, stirred up by the sea breeze. His mother had opened the west-facing windows every morning at dawn, and Rommath supposed someone must've done the same in her absence. Every breath was like a mouthful of the Great Sea.

He'd have to decide whether he missed it or not by the time he left.

His father—or the High Minister of Arcane Magic, in this context, and most others—had his office on the fifth floor, far from the commotion of the cooks and cleaners below. And the rest of the world, it sometimes seemed.

So when the servant scurried away and left Rommath standing in the doorway, it was just the two of them.

His father was the only thing that looked different than he remembered.

The man's skin was the color of wet parchment now, and looked about as supple. Distantly, Rommath thought the veins might burst through his hands, as he tore apart the pages of some unfortunate spellbook with a quill and ink.

"You've grown," said the man.

Rommath wasn't sure how he could tell; his eyes had never left the page.

"Take a seat." He gestured to the chair opposite his desk with the free hand. "Let me finish this paragraph."

Rommath did as he was told. He always did.

"Something to drink?" he offered. "I don't keep wine up here, but I'll have Hallis fetch you some if it suits you."

His father's wine cellar was famously full of well-aged wine. He rarely drank, see—he only kept the wine for his guests. But in the time Rommath had lived here, the boy had seen less guests than empty chalices on his father's desk.

"It doesn't." His voice sounded small, even to his own ears.

"Good." He scribbled furiously at the margins; it was a wonder that his quill didn't splinter. "Thought that Telestra might turn you into a rampant alcoholic. I hear she does that. But her students always graduate early."

 _Kael._  The thought was uninvited, but it refused to be ignored. Definitely Kael.

"She's a good teacher," he said softly. "Brilliant."

"I know."

Rommath sighed as the silence returned. His father, on the other hand, seemed unperturbed.

Scanning the room for anything of note, his eyes settled on a piece of fine pottery, silver on navy, as was the theme in this house. "Is that a new vase?" he asked after a moment.

"No," said his father.

Of course it wasn't. Nothing was new, not the walls or the windows or the potted plants in their sills.

He searched for something else to say, anything to stop the silence. "Work?" he tried.

"Fine," said his father, shrugging—still scribbling. "Annotating and editing, mostly. Bought some land down by the border at a steal, but the laborers are kicking up a fuss. Talk of war's putting quite a damper on profit. Little concern of mine, I suppose."

Rommath pursed his lips, nodding. "That's—"

"I didn't ask you here for smalltalk, Rommath." So his father was still straightforward as ever. At least that'd stayed the same. "If I wanted to chat, I'd have written a letter, not a summons."

"Oh," said Rommath.

He'd expected that, at least.

"Let's not mince words. I've got to be at some Lightforsaken banquet at dusk."

He nodded, dutiful as always.

"You're due to come of age soon, yes?" he asked. "What, a month?"

 _Thirty days_. He nodded.

"Good." The man looked at Rommath the way normal people looked at a research summary—pulled him apart, inspected each piece. But he put them back in all the wrong places, leaving Rommath feeling quite unnerved. "I love your mother very much."

He nodded at this, too. But she'd been bleeding from a broken lip the night she'd left.

"I married her because I loved her," he said, his sorcerer's smile gone. "It was a privilege—I always knew, but I didn't quite understand until I'd met my brother's wife. She'd been picked out by our father, based on ancestry and arcane aptitude alone. Hideous harpy of a woman, not a kind bone in her body. And Light, she had some big bones. Made up for it with low-cut dresses, though."

Rommath nodded, no less confused.

"I didn't get on well with my brother, but I wouldn't wish a fate like that on my worst enemy." Nails rapping on rosewood, the man considered this. "Suppose I wouldn't have to. Sunspinner's wife is sleeping with someone else and all of Silvermoon knows it."

Rommath knew this too. It was just one of those ubiquitous facts, the ones that everyone knew—in excruciating detail—and no one knew how.

"I don't want any of that for you." His brow twitched, as if to emphasize this. "I want you to find someone you love. Do you understand?"

Sometimes "understanding" something and "making sense" of it were two vastly different concepts. But Rommath pretended this wasn't one of those times and nodded anyhow.

"Good." His father was nodding too. "Do you think you could do that?"

Rommath went on nodding, just a hair slower.

"Within the next six months?"

He halted abruptly, halfway through his most recent nod. "What?"

"A year might be doable," the man tried.

"I-I—" Rommath swallowed and put his head back in motion—side to side, this time. "I don't understand. I'm sorry."

His father sighed as he stopped scrawling—Rommath swore he heard a screech—and dropped the quill in the inkwell with a  _clink_  that made the boy flinch.

"You are my son, my heir," he told him. "My blood runs through your veins." He leaned over his tome, elbows propped on the margins and fingers steepled at a point. "And I'd prefer not to market you around Silvermoon's courts like a piece of prized livestock. Wouldn't you?"

Rommath just stared dumbly at his father.

"Good." The High Minister of Arcane Magic returned to his work. "Spares me the trouble, and yourself the insult, hm?"

Rommath could only come up with one reply—thank the Light his mouth was so dry, or he might've blurted it out right there.

_He couldn't._

He couldn't do it. He'd known since he kissed Liora—no, Liora kissed him—when he was eleven and afraid.

He couldn't marry some stiff, starched, seemingly-suave, subtly-sharp-tongued sweetheart from Silvermoon. He couldn't  _sire sons_  with some stiff, starched, seemingly-suave—

" _I can't_."

He supposed his mouth was feeling sufficiently hydrated now. Lovely.

" _Can't_?" his father repeated, a perfect echo.

This time, when he swallowed, he found his mouth dry once more. For the best, he guessed.

"And what, pray tell," he said slowly, deliberately, "do you mean by that?"

He said nothing, just pressed himself into his chair and wished that he was better at invisibility spells. Or that he could stop shaking his head like a moron, at the least.

He said nothing, because the only thing he could think of was  _Kael_ —not that he should've been, but he was—and what good would that do him?

 _None_.

And besides, his mouth might as well have been full of sand by now, because it was drier than Silithus.

"Perhaps I was not clear," said his father, and suddenly Rommath was a boy again, shaking and scared. "Allow me to correct this." He did not raise his voice—he never did, preferred the depths of dangerously-low anger. "You will find someone to love within the year, or I'll be forced to find someone for you." He leaned back toward the window for a better look at the sun, tapping idly at the glass with one knuckle. " _Clear_?"

Rommath was still silent, staring in shock as his father got to his feet and smoothed out those silken robes of his.

"I ought to get dressed," he said simply. "Can't be seen by the Convocation in this." He glanced at Rommath as he passed, never pausing. "Will you be staying the night?"

And thus Rommath completed his regression to boyhood: "Yes, Father."

But his father didn't seem to hear that either.

* * *

Rommath wasn't sure precisely how long he stayed there, tethered to his chair, just that he'd left as soon as he realized it was dark. He didn't want to be sitting in the same spot when his father returned; furthermore, he wasn't allowed in the study without supervision, if the rule still applied.

He supposed that was how he'd arrived at his room—the one place he knew for certain he was allowed—seated beneath the window for hours, where he clutched a book of names.

He hadn't seen these pages since he was seven, but they looked just the same as they had then.

Idly, one thumb traced the border of their crest—etched in silver on the cover—and the other flipped a coin bearing the face of a familiar prince.

" _Weather The Storm_."

Rommath always read their house's words in his father's voice, proud—and why shouldn't he have been?

Their name was as old as Quel'Thalas itself, or so his father had told him, when his father had told him things. He had quite a knack for storytelling, when he had a mind for it.

He'd always grinned when he told the tale of Aelorath Falor'dore—just Aelorath at the time—and the Long Winter, before Quel'Thalas was the Land of Eternal Springtime, or even Quel'Thalas at all.

"Back then, it was wild, untamed," his father would tell them. "Trolls ran rampant through the woods, and when winter set upon them, Dath'Remar and his disciples had nowhere to go.

"So they shivered," he'd say, hugging his arms to his chest, "and for the first time in recorded history, the Highborne starved," he'd say, groaning.

"But not Aelorath, first of his name. No. His party had been sent north to scout for leylines, and as the last remaining survivor, he intended to do just that. He'd been born on Hyjal's summit, see, so he knew all about snow." Here, he'd summon some for his sons to see, a miniature blizzard in the palm of his hand. "So he came upon this spot—" He'd stamp his foot for emphasis. "—and felt a nice cozy convergence of leylines running through these cliffs, running straight to the Sunwell! But he didn't know that yet. All he knew was that the Elrendar emptied into the sea at this spot, and that it would do wonders to empower his spellwork."

And sometimes, when he was feeling up to it, the man would create a shimmering mana barrier around his audience, just to see his boys' gleaming grins. "Then Aelorath Falor'dore, the brilliant man he was, used those very leylines to construct a massive arcane field around this very location, so no danger could reach him—no tusked behemoths or wintry winds." He'd grin right back, as the tale reached its end: "And that's where Dath'Remar and the rest found him, months later, standing tall in his triumph—he'd spat at the storm, and withstood its wrath."

And sired a house large enough to fill twelve pages with names, Rommath saw—heirs upon heirs upon heirs.

Twelve pages, and it ended with him. His name, under his brother ( _deceased_ ), under his father, who was under his brother and father before him.

Familiar as ever. Still didn't look right.

The rest of the pages were blank, left for Rommath's supposed progeny.

But for now, his was last.

He traced the lettering with a forefinger, from the ' _R_ ' to the ' _H_ ', lingering there for a moment.

" _Rommath_ —"

It looked better with half his finger hiding the rest of his name from view.

Or so he told himself. He wasn't all that convincing.

Just Rommath.

It wasn't so bad.

He breathed a sigh, wet his lips, and pushed himself to his feet. The book was tossed on an impossibly tiny bed on his way out of the room, and he tried not to think of his initials scratched into the post.

One last glance over his shoulder—he wanted to see the ocean from his bedroom window for a final time.

The sky was the softest shade of lavender he'd ever seen, and as the sun rose, Rommath decided he wasn't mad at his mother anymore.

He left his room for an eerily silent corridor, sealing the crash of the ocean behind him as the door clicked closed.

He didn't suppose his father was awake yet—it was half-past three by the time Rommath had heard him at the door—but he wanted to tell him in person.

Of all the places he'd been forbidden as a child, his father's bedroom made the top of the list. He hesitated at the door, braced himself for a harsh scolding when he knocked, but all he got was a creak in response, the hinges complaining as the door swung open.

His father's room was painted purple in the morning light, and the bed was empty, with the sheets made up the way his mother always had.

"He doesn't sleep there," said a voice behind him.

All Rommath had to offer in lieu of a reply was a strangled gasp.

"Forgive me, milord," said the servant, staring at his shoes. "I did not mean to startle you."

Rommath said nothing; he was trying to convince himself that this might be the last time someone addressed him with that title, or that it was fine that way.

"He's not slept here since Lady Falor'dore left."

Rommath blinked, startled for a second time. His mother never cared for formalities, as far as he knew—half the staff had called her Miss Elenora, and the others just called her El. So had his father, forever ago.

Edienor Falor'dore, last of his name, was a complex, multi-faceted man, it would seem. Just like the rest.

He wasn't stone, however hard he tried.

He was a fine-cut gem—bloodstone, his favorite—and he bled like any other. He cried—only in private, to preserve his pride. He grieved—in that odd way of his, preservation of another sense.

Rommath would've bet Oroveth's bedding was every bit the rumpled mess he'd left it the day he died.

He wondered—idly, involuntarily—how his father would immortalize him.

"Could you show me to him?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.

The servant shifted his weight and his gaze both, visibly nervous. "He should not be woken…"

"It's urgent," Rommath insisted.

And that was how he found himself back on the fifth floor, standing in his father's study once more.

The High Minister of Arcane Magic looked every bit as imposing as he slept, long legs dangling off the divan. The shadows were a whetstone for his sharp features—the angled jaw and clear-cut cheekbones that spoke for his ancestry. Even as he dreamt, he frowned—brows twitching, one bisected by a livid scar.

"Father," Rommath whispered.

He received no response from the man, save the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.

Rommath reached to give his shoulder a shake. " _Father_."

The man woke clutching his chest, bolt-upright in the blink of an eye, staring at Rommath through a tangle of coal-black hair with a glare almost as dark. But the rest of him was pale—deathly so—and by the time the color had worked its way back to his cheeks, that scowl had settled back over his features, and he looked himself once more.

"You gave me a fright," he said with a shiver. "Don't startle me like that."

Rommath didn't flinch or pull away, wounded. He felt nothing at all.

"I'm leaving," was all he said to him.

His father raised a brow—the whole one—but if he was at all fazed, he didn't care to show it. "Very well," he said. "Safe travels."

Rommath nodded numbly, taking a step toward the door. "You should write me out of your will."

The man stared at him, his features still as a glacier and equally frigid. "Oh?"

"I'm renouncing your name." The words didn't sound any better when he spoke them aloud, but at least he could hear the logic now. "For what it's worth, I think Tethinor should take my place." Rommath hadn't seen his cousin since he was six, but he'd heard the lad had grown into quite the stoic sorcerer. "He'd make you proud."

The man's eyes narrowed to slits, closer to curiosity than cold anger. "That's all you wanted, wasn't it?" Met with silence, he continued: "Did I not make it painfully easy for you? I gave you an apprenticeship with the finest tutor I could find. I gave you a name, and a rich, storied bloodline. I gave you a house and a home so huge I swear sometimes I hear the cliffs  _creak_  beneath its weight. Petulant boy. I made certain you've wanted for nothing your whole life, haven't I?"

"A father." The words weren't even a whisper—barely a breath—no more than a twitch of his lips as they traced the syllables on the shallow current of a sigh.

But the man noticed, perceptive as always. "Speak up, son."

He supposed this would be the last time he heard that word in his father's voice, cold enough to freeze wine, and from the look in his eye, the man was every bit as aware.

"Affection?" he said, shrugging a shoulder as if he were unsure— _he wasn't_. "Something in the mailbox on my birthday. Respect, at the very least. I know you can manage that much."

"Respect is not given," his father told him. "It's taken."

He felt frustrated—a foreign feeling, far as he was concerned, but he could tell from the way his words came out, faster than he could breathe: "I graduated a year early," he tried. "I'm months away from receiving my archmage's sash— _less_  if I can make any sense of arcane animation—that's two years ahead of the average, Father— _two_ years,  _one_  month, and  _twenty-seven_  days."

His father straightened his shoulders just to shrug the one closest to his son— _once_ -son. "Do you suppose your natural command of sorcery has anything to do with yourself?"

He paused, not long enough for Rommath to answer—not that he would've.

"It's in your  _blood_. Blood you received from me. That I received from my father, and his father's father, all the way back to Aelorath Fucking Falor'dore. A name that should've had you "making sense of arcane animation" before you lost your baby teeth, mind you—but that's my fault, I'll own that error, for falling in love with a lowborn lass before I knew better. And I worried from the beginning, you know, ever since you decided to dive off the balcony downstairs—and when I had to fuck Telestra just to convince her to take you in, but—"

"You what?" Rommath whispered—whimpered, rather.

His father frowned. "Don't make that face. She's the one who suggested it. It's not my fault she needed convincing—I'm not the one who fucked up your exhibition, am I?"

"You...f- _fucked_ —my teacher?"

The man was not amused. "Yes," he told him, "it's no matter. Doesn't make you less of a mage. You grew into your skillset, as I knew you would. It's in your blood."

Rommath's mouth worked, but it was experiencing some difficulty producing coherent speech—more so than usual, anyway. "With your—"

" _Rommath_."

He shut his mouth, silenced, and for a moment, they simply stared at one another—Rommath teetering on the brink of chaos, his father waiting to see which way he fell.

Not toward him. Not this time.

He was leaning back on his heels, closer to the door, but his father snapped before he could make his escape.

"Go then," he hissed, hatred and horror warring for control of his features. "Leave me, prodigal boy.  _Begone_."

Rommath always did as he was told, but for the record, he'd decided he didn't miss when his father told him things.


	8. -VII-

_**TW:** _ **Mentions of self-harm in reference to blood magic.** _  
_

* * *

 

_-VII-_

"I graduated two months later." The grand magister's words were the verbal equivalent of a deadpan—would've matched quite nicely with the one behind his high collar. "My father was right. It was in my blood."

He had to cross his arms when he caught himself staring at his hands.

In the right light, one could still see the scars, slim and impossibly smooth against the skin of his palms. Or maybe one couldn't; maybe it was just him, since he was the one looking. The noonday sun brought them out best, he thought, but today, it cowered behind the clouds.

As if Fate itself was reading his thoughts, a fat drop of rain landed with a splat on his shoulder—his daydream died with it.

Vaguely, he realized that Aethas was arching a brow at him, watching from the corner of his eye. "You all right, old man?" he murmured. "You're looking pensive again."

The grand magister thought Quel'Thalas might've caught on by now; that was just the natural arrangement of his features. Rommath didn't know how to make it any clearer.

He was thinking of having it embroidered on a throw pillow. Perhaps a doormat would do the trick. Or maybe a neat little tattoo across his forehead. One more wouldn't hurt, would it?

Not true. They had hurt like hell, every last one. Like a knife seeking blood. (Ironically.) He would know.

"I graduated two months later," he said again, finding his voice. "With bandaged hands. No one noticed, not even when they handed me the sash and the scroll. Some people had more important things to think about, I suppose."

Not Archmage Aethas Sunreaver, it would seem.

"May I?" Sunreaver spoke so softly Rommath didn't realize how bold those words were until his palm was inches from the archmage's eyes. "I saw them when you were signing off on my pardon."

Rommath recalled.

Wrought with rage, the grand magister's hands had shaken just enough to knock over the inkwell when he'd finished, and then he'd had to sign it all over again. After a good half-minute spent searching for something to incinerate, anyway.

"I wanted to ask, just didn't seem like a good time." Aethas' eyes tracked the scars down Rommath's forearms, up to his shoulder—no further. "You looked like you were already thinking of places to hide my corpse."

"I would've slit my palms open all over again just to make sure it was a painful death," Rommath said matter-of-factly.

That wasn't true either. He wasn't a violent creature. Else he would've been using beast-blood for his sanguine rituals like all the rest of the bloodmages did.

With a wave of his hand, he dismissed Aethas' curiosity or concern or whatever it was that had him studying his hands like he'd found some ancient, long-forgotten carvings.

"They're just scars," he said with a shrug. "I can tell you're thinking about it the same way everyone else does. Shame on you, Sunreaver. You're supposed to be some sort of maverick."

The archmage frowned. "I think you're a masochist. A man in love with pain. That's what I think."

Rommath almost laughed at that.  _Almost_. "I wasn't, not quite yet," he told him. "I was barely a man at all—seventeen when it started, nineteen when it started getting bad."

"Two years?" Aethas narrowed his eyes. "And where was your prince, in all of this?"

"Kael saw," he said. "I know that for certain. We were spending a lot of time together, the prince and I. Practically lived with each other—me, him, and whoever he was dating that week. Was good for us. I needed someone to pick me up, and he needed someone to keep him grounded. And hold his dick when he was too wasted to piss in a straight line."

Sunreaver's smile seemed suspiciously sympathetic, but Rommath thought it was in his best interest not to ask.

"But he never mentioned it," he continued. "I think he was worried he'd make it worse if he brought it to my attention. Or maybe he was just as infinitely intoxicated as the rumormongers would have you believe. No matter. He was always sober at Council meetings—or hungover, at the very least."

"Believe it or not, being the youngest member on the Council is a lot of pressure," Aethas added with a humorless laugh. "Hardly the type that turns out diamonds."

The grand magister couldn't deny that. "He was desperate to impress," he said softly. "Not that he'd have ever admitted it."

"That'd make two of you then, yes?"

"Suppose it did." He smiled like a rictus. "I dove into my studies like they were my mother's silverleaf bushes beneath the third story veranda."

Sunreaver coughed out a laugh, like he wasn't sure which he wanted, but he just ended up sounding like he was in need of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

"I've never been as productive as I was those two long years before my nineteenth winter, and I hope I never am." Rommath traced the scars up one forearm, invisible under the ink that glyphed his skin. "Research, experiments—I even dabbled in alchemy for a month or two, but it didn't suit me."

Couldn't be improved by any contribution of blood, rather. So he went back to opening his veins for arcane.

"They gave me medals and plaques, but I wasn't all that interested. I just wanted them to talk. I wanted my father to hear—I wanted him to regret watching me walk away—I wanted him to  _wish_  I was his son and—" He took a deep breath. "I just wanted him to want me."

Sunreaver stayed silent.

"So I started wearing long-sleeved robes."

* * *

" _The Kirin Tor Advanced Research and Illumination Sect presents_

_ARCHMAGE ROMMATH_

_with high honors, for his enlightening work_

_The Short-Term Effects of Ley Manipulation on the Living."_

The plaque was more pretentious than pretty, but Rommath didn't particularly care. He'd put it with the rest.

Tucking his placard under one arm with a wince, he trudged down Dalaran's streets, keeping to the gutter to avoid the crowds. Winter Veil was waiting just around the corner, but the citizens of Dalaran had started their celebration early—as usual. The shops had lined their windows with treats and toys just a week into December, and by now every door was dressed in holly and evergreen.

Rommath didn't particularly care about this, either.

He  _did_  care about his shoes, however, soaked through from the slush that'd been last night's snow. Only because they were lynx leather—a present from the prince.

But the prince was busy now. He'd missed the award ceremony, hadn't he?

Rommath couldn't recall.

In fact, when he thought very hard, it seemed like the last time he'd seen the prince was...three days and twenty-two hours ago.

_Oh._

This wouldn't have been nearly as worrisome if Rommath hadn't been sleeping on Kael's couch for the past eight days and seven hours, after a mishap during the aforementioned "enlightening work" had produced levels of arcane residue deemed "unfit for life" by the city's sanitation crew.

But he tried not to think about it, since he had to focus and all.

Not that he didn't miss him. He just didn't notice.

He was living...frenetically, that was all. Yes— _frenetically_ —existing in the hazy area somewhere between diligent study and sleep deprivation—saw everything through tunnel-vision, figuratively (usually). He missed Kael, just like an amputee missed a missing limb—he missed him intensely, always, somewhere in the back of his mind. Mostly, he missed—

His thoughts were interrupted by a blast of cold that sent him reeling, courtesy of one grinning prince of Quel'Thalas and the very same hands that kept him from biting the cobblestones below. "Don't you just love snow?"

— _not that_.

Rommath, still clinging to Kael's sleeves, managed to smother his surprise as he shook the snow out of his robes. "It's the most wonderful thing that ever existed."

The words didn't seem quite so enthusiastic in Rommath's muted monotone, but perhaps that was because he'd just found himself buried beneath an armful of packed snow, the prince's usual winter greeting.

Kael, grinning brightly and slightly buzzed, didn't seem fazed in the least.

"Was wondering where you were," said Rommath, falling into step beside him.

"Silvermoon," said the youngest Sunstrider in a singsong. "You headed home?"

"Mhm."

"That another plaque?" he asked. "What's this one for?" Carefully, Kael slipped the award out from the crook of Rommath's arm. "Ley-line manipulation? That's the exploding one, yes?"

"It didn't  _explode_ ," he told him. "It just...expanded very quickly. And left a large deposit of unstable arcane energy in my living room." He shrugged as best he could with Kael's arm draped over his shoulder. "They said my house should be safe enough for "inhabitation" on Thursday."

"Tragic," said the prince. "I think I might miss you. Maybe I'll do some ley-line manipulation of my own so I can come sleep on  _your_  couch, hm?"

Rommath smiled at his shoes. "It's a loveseat," he said softly. "And much too small for you."

"Then you can scoot over and share your bed," Kael suggested. "Light knows the left side of your mattress could use a little attention."

"It gets plenty of attention," Rommath told him. When his dreams were vivid, he woke up on the other side of his bed.

"Doubtful," said the prince, "if you still sleep all curled up like when you were little."

On a bold day, Rommath might've dared him to find out for himself. Today, he simply blushed.

"That's all the confirmation I need." Laughing, he returned the award to Rommath and gave his shoulder a squeeze. "You going to put it with the rest?"

He kept all his accomplishments boxed up beneath his bed, beside eleven years' worth of unanswered letters from his mother. They didn't come every Monday anymore, just on the holidays, and honestly, Rommath didn't fault her for that.

"Rom?"

"Yeah," he said with a shrug.

"Well," the prince told him, "I'm putting it on my mantle until you leave. Seems awfully stupid to put prestigious awards under the bed—then you can't even use them to pick up pretty girls."

Rommath's brow twitched in the subtlest of frowns. "I don't know why I'd want to do that."

"Because you're not the prince of Quel'Thalas?" he asked. "I don't know. I'm not sure how other people pick up pretty girls."

His frown deepened. "Me neither, I guess."

"Or I suppose, in your case, pretty guys," the prince said with a shrug.

At this precise moment, the young archmage learned just how quickly he could jump from "profuse blush" to "deathly pale."

Kael, on the other hand, seemed infinitely amused. "Oh, stop. Don't make that face. It's far more commonplace back home."

This  _was_  Rommath's home, so he didn't find that even remotely reassuring.

"But between the both of us, I almost like the secrecy of it," the prince told him. "It adds a whole new element to the chase. And you know me, I'm in it more for the hunt than the quarry."

"B-But—I— _I_ —" Rommath tried. Even those nonsense syllables sounded like lies.

"Oh, please," Kael said with a scoff.

He pulled him so close that their foreheads collided—Rommath bit his tongue, but he couldn't find it in himself to complain—and he would've guessed Kael could feel the heat coming off his blush, even if he didn't say so.

"You might have everyone else duped, but not me." The prince pressed a wet kiss to the crown of his head and patted his hair twice for good measure—neither of which helped the rapidly advancing heatwave that was spreading from his cheeks. "You can't fool me, sweetheart."

Kael concluded the moment with a flick of his wrist as a short-range teleportation spell whisked him out of reach. And the prince just went about checking the mail, as if it meant nothing at all.

So Rommath did his best to follow suit, staring at the curb as he tried not to melt where he stood. "A-A-Anything good…?" he called after him.

It was a pathetic attempt at a subject change—his voice was an octave too high and he could feel his pulse throbbing where he'd bitten his tongue, pounding obnoxiously and out of time—but the prince wasn't paying much mind.

Kael's smile had become a scowl, and the subject of said scowl was an envelope stamped with Silvermoon's royal seal. "Another letter from my father," he muttered.

The king had been unusually talkative, as of late, but Kael never wanted to talk about it, and Rommath lacked the courage to ask.

"Must be nice—" Rommath was promptly silenced as the prince plucked another letter from the mailbox and his eyes were pulled to the seal on the front: the seven-armed star of the Convocation. "What's that?"

The question might've sounded like a command, had it come from anyone besides Rommath.

"Ah, nothing," said Kael with a shrug. "Just a formality. Magister Cindersmoke wants to publish an anthology of my old notes."

His lungs deflated in a sigh, two parts relief and one part remorse. "Congratulations."

"Seems like we've both got plenty to celebrate, hm?"

"Celebrate?" Rommath echoed, staring dumbly after him as he headed up the steps.

"Well, yes!" The prince looped a couple of Rommath's fingers in his own and pulled him along after him. "You're the fool if you think I'll let this occasion slide without a glass of fine wine."

A frigid gust froze Kael's kiss on Rommath's forehead, and he stumbled after the prince like each step was his first.

He would've protested, if the grip on his fingers were a little looser.

He would've protested, if he weren't catching glimpses of that grin—fleeting glimpses, but the prince's grin could do more too him in a glimpse than most grins could do in a decade.

He would've protested, if his heart weren't pounding like it had found the key to his ribcage and was about ready to burst free.

He would've protested, if it were anyone but Kael.

But it  _was_.

It was Kael who was coaxing him inside. It was the prince's couch beneath him, plush and piled with pillows. It was the youngest Sunstrider who sing-songed as he disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a bottle and a pair of chalices crossed in one hand.

"I got us a fresh one," he announced. "Or at least it was fresh when I got back this afternoon." Frowning, he gave the bottle a swish and handed it off to Rommath. "Don't know what happened between then and now."

Rommath had a good guess, but he didn't plan on sharing. Just shrugged as he poured himself a minimal amount of alcohol.

"More," Kael instructed.

He would've protested, if the prince weren't leaning so close—Kael was all he saw.

* * *

And that was how he found himself six drinks in and sprawled on Kael's sofa, legs splayed at an uncomfortable angle, sputtering and gasping for breath between fits of laughter as he squirmed beneath a prince who had forgone his throne for Rommath's belly, when he'd "refused" to scoot over so he could sit beside him.

Rommath didn't remember Kael asking. He remembered Kael collapsing in his lap, in spite of the two empty cushions to their left, and then squashing him when he tried to question the prince's "royal decree," on the basis that "a prince can make anything his throne."

This time, Rommath  _did_  protest—feebly, from beneath Kael's weight, in much the same way a mouse might protest a trap. " _Kael_ ," he wheezed. "I can't breathe—"

"Ah, but you must be breathing," the prince observed, in his best scholar's voice, "because you are laughing. Your lungs require  _oxygen_  to produce laughter, so in conclusion—"

" _Kael'thas_." For half a second, Rommath summoned some semblance of a stern stare. "Get off me!"

The prince gave him a not-so-princely smirk that suggested he'd wildly misinterpreted Rommath's plea. "Well, I don't think you get to issue the orders around here," he purred. " _I'm_  the prince.  _I_ make the decrees.  _I_ tell you to jump, and  _you_  say—"

"I have bad knees."

"What?" Kael blinked at him, blank-faced and mostly vacant. "No,  _I_ tell you to jump, and you say—"

"It's going to hurt," said Rommath.

"No, you say  _how high_." The prince was making a couple exaggerated gestures to compensate for his clumsy explanation, but they were failing quite miserably. "You've never heard that saying?"

Rommath shrugged. "Well, I can't jump very high," he said simply. "Can't jump at all with you sitting on me."

"Oh!" said the prince, as though it'd just dawned on him. "My apologies."

Rommath thought he ached more once the prince was on his feet and teetering, but he put a conscious effort into convincing himself that that didn't make any sense. He also thought he would ache even more if Kael actually made him jump, though this seemed less important.

"I think it looks rather nice here," Kael was saying as he was swaying in front of the mantle, hands on his hips like pride personified.

Had he stepped over the coffee table? Rommath couldn't be sure. His head hurt.

"Matches my tapestry." The prince made another expansive gesture toward the wall hanging of the Kirin Tor crest—the one above his mantle, which was also the only tapestry he owned—in case Rommath wasn't sure which one he meant. "Would hate to see it tucked away under your bed and all."

Rommath made a face. "You can't see it when it's tucked away under my bed," he said. "That's the point."

Brows furrowed in a frown, the prince spun to meet his eye, swaying some more all the while. "Why's that?"

"The name," he said, shrugging.

Kael swayed his way back to Rommath's side, seating himself on the armrest. "I like your name," he offered.

"I don't have one," Rommath told him.

"Rommath," he said, suddenly stern. "Yes, you do. It's  _Rommath_."

"A surname," he clarified.

The prince pondered this for a moment. "What if you changed your first name to 'Archmage' and your last name to 'Rommath'?" he suggested. "Then you can look at your medals and I've solved all your problems."

"I think they'd just write 'Archmage Archmage Rommath' on all my plaques then," said Rommath.

"Oh." Kael shrugged. "Well, I don't know what to tell you then. I'd give you my name if I could."

He tilted his head to one side as he considered it. "You wouldn't be ashamed or something?"

"Ashamed?" Kael echoed, incredulous. "I'd be—" He hiccuped. "—I'd be honored! Why would I be ashamed?"

Rommath shrugged helplessly. "I don't know," he told him. "My father—"

"Rom," the prince cut in, "I'm telling you this because I care about you. A lot, Rom." He hiccuped again, chasing this one with a sip of—when had he moved onto whiskey? "You are a grown-ass man. You'd got to stop talking about your father like he's a fucking Titan or something."

"But—"

He shook his head and swallowed another swig. "But nothing, Rom. I get it, really. I know all about expectations. And falling short, too. Trust me, Rom. I do. But you don't see me walking around with my eyes on the ground thinking about what my father thinks all the time, do you? I just  _do_  things. If I'm not a perfect posh prince, well, whatever. You know who cares?"

"Your father," Rommath answered.

"No one," Kael corrected. "Well, maybe my father. Whatever. Fuck my father."

Rommath shouldn't have been thinking about Anasterian's elegant features.  _Light_ , his cheekbones could cut quartz. And his shoulders— _stop_.

"And fuck yours too," Kael added.

He grimaced.

"If he's not proud of you, he should be," the prince continued, flinging his drink about to demonstrate his passion. "I'll  _order_  him to. Next time I see him. I will. I swear I will."

That got a laugh out of Rommath; he hoped Kael would make  _him_  jump, too.

"He should be appreciative," he insisted. "He should be impressed, at the least! He should—"

"Jump!" Rommath suggested.

"Sure, yeah," Kael said, nodding vigorously. "Really, he should just be grateful to have you in his life."

"You think so?" Rommath asked, the words but a whisper.

"Sure, yeah," Kael said, still nodding. "I think it's a privilege, myself."

"You think so?" Rommath breathed, softer yet.

"Sure, yeah," Kael said. It was a wonder he hadn't made himself nauseous with all that nodding. "Absolutely. Yeah. You know, I think—you know what I think you deserve?"

Rommath swallowed hard before he got the chance to choke out a reply.

"A toast!"

 _Deep breaths_.

"Here!" The prince snatched a bottle from the end table with startling ease, shaking the last few drops into Rommath's empty glass before he continued. "Okay. Yeah. Are you ready?"

"Do toasts have a minimum number of participants?" Rommath asked as he stared into his drink. There was something swirling around at the bottom of his glass. "Or a minimum amount of alcohol, for that matter?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Rom," Kael told him, holding his drink aloft. "Now, I'd like to—no, Rommath. You don't raise your glass. You're the one being toasted."

Rommath frowned. "I'm not raising my—oh." He returned his drink to his lap with a nod. "Okay."

"You just sit there and blush politely," Kael informed him. "Very good. Okay. Yeah." He took a sip from his glass. "Wait, shit. Let me borrow yours. I accidentally drank mine."

Rommath did as he was told, handing it over to Kael with giddy grin.

"Okay." He cleared his throat. "I propose a toast to Archmage Archmage Rommath, my constant companion and, um, closest confidant."

Rommath laughed a little. At least he was doing all right with the blushing. The alcohol helped.

"For—um," Kael went on, "for everything, I guess. Yeah, everything. For your hard work and dedication and all your awards even if they don't say your last name, and also for being my friend for as far back as I can recall—which isn't very long at this exact moment, but that's okay. And for all those nights spent doing my homework during my 'I-already-know-the-material-so-I-don't-need-to-practice' phase, and then for covering for me when I was sneaking out to drink smuggled flamewine with some fleeting friends who I honestly thought would last when you're the only one who did."

He was certain he was blushing now, all the way to the tips of his ears.

"And, um, lastly, for somehow always being there, you know?" The prince leaned a little closer, inspecting the color in his cheeks. "Sometimes I don't notice—you don't call a lot of attention to yourself, Rom—but then whenever I think of you, you're there. Have you seen the stained glass in Sunstrider Spire?"

Kael's breath was hot against Rommath's skin, but his blush was hotter yet.

He swallowed and shook his head. "I've never been."

"Well, I'll take you some day," Kael told him. "Okay. Yeah. The stained glass. It's the first thing you're aware of, when you set foot in the throneroom. It's marvelous. But after a couple of minutes, you just forget it's there. Not like it blocks out the light or anything noticeable. And you don't really think about it until there's a little glimmer or something and it catches your eye and I'm thinking how beautiful y—"

" _Hello_?" cried a voice from the door. "Can someone  _please_  let me in?"

The prince was on his feet in an instant, somewhat steady as he made his way to the foyer, far away from Rommath.

He guessed he should've been glad for the interruption, because he'd only realized once Kael had gone and taken that intoxicating aura with him just how much he'd wanted to kiss the prince. Or be kissed, rather.

Not a wet forehead kiss, freezing in the winter wind with his hair whipping in the way. Not a "this is only for your education, so don't tell Telestra" kiss in the alley on the way to Liora's house.

A clumsy kiss. A sloppy kiss. A kiss that couldn't be confined to the lips. A kiss that spilled down across his jaw to his throat and paused at the pulse point for an ever so gentle nip. Like the kind the prince was treating the girl at the door to.

_Oh._

Rommath's heart was pounding, and he could feel it throbbing in a lattice on each forearm and four long gashes on either palm.

"I thought you'd gotten lost or something," the prince was whispering against her lips. "I didn't think you'd show up."

"I  _was_  lost," said the girl, smoothing her dress. "I haven't been here since I was six. And you give horrid directions." She pressed a peck to the prince's cheek. "Who's this?"

Kael's tongue flitted out to wet his lips when he turned back to Rommath, who watched, rapt. "That's Rom."

The way the prince spoke his name made his stomach seize.

"I told you about him," Kael added.

"Ah," she said. "Yes, I recall. I've heard plenty."

"All good things," the prince assured him.

"Light, he doesn't shut up about you." The girl kept her stare set on Rommath as she spoke, never blinking, not once. "By the Well, you weren't kidding about that, were you? Look, he's bleeding through his bandages. Why—"

" _Cyrel_ ," Kael cut in. He didn't say more—didn't need to, really—just glared at her until she was silent.

Rommath, on the other bloody, throbbing hand, couldn't stop staring at his bandages. She wasn't wrong, but the words cut deeper than any of the marks on his arms. Worse, they sounded startlingly sober.

The conversation had moved on and left him behind—Cyrel was saying something about the first time she'd slept with Kael, watching Rommath all the while—but he only caught bits and blurbs. Some mention of Silvermoon, sitting across from him at a banquet.

Rommath didn't particularly care. Not at all, really.

He was having a hard time keeping his eyes off the strips of linen that lined his arms, soaked and sticky.

"I don't feel well," he blurted.

Kael stared at him while Cyrel continued on. Drunk or not, the prince had enough wits about him to know that the way Rommath pitched forward, clutching at the couch cushions, meant a mess was inbound.

"Shit," he said.

And that about summed it up.

He'd managed to stumble back to Rommath's side by the third dry heave, cradling a vase that had contained two blooming mageroyals in some stale water until the prince had tripped over the throw rug, in his haste.

Lacking any alternative and most of his consciousness by this point, Rommath proceeded to vomit a night's worth of hard drinking into Kael's conveniently empty vase, pausing every so often to cough out an apology between waves of nausea.

Kael had gathered his hair up in one hand, the other braced on his shoulder to keep him steady. "Shit, Rom," he told him, "can't drink on an empty stomach. No more of that."

"Light, he looks miserable," Cyrel observed, somewhere in the background.

He hadn't been planning on drinking at all, empty stomach or no. But Kael—

The prince was squeezing his shoulder, murmuring words too soft and slurred for Rommath to hear, but comforting words nonetheless. And holding his hair back for him, the whole time.

And when it was all over, Rommath wiped his nose on his sleeve and said, "Apologies."

"Don't," Kael said, shushing him.

"Just a minor setback," said Cyrel. "Now!" Grinning, the girl presented them with two tall bottles of wine, so heavy with liquid that her arms quivered beneath the weight, and Rommath thought he might be sick all over again. "I was promised a nice night!"

Rommath replied with a sniffle, followed by several shallow breaths.

"Think he's had enough," Kael told her.

"No doubt about that." She was struggling with the cork now—had it clenched in her teeth, since her hands were full. "But I'm  _sadly_  sober. And what about you? Thought you were going to demonstrate how much your tolerance had improved, hm?"

The prince's clumsy fingers kept picking at a strand of Rommath's hair that kept sticking to his clammy skin. "I think I ought to call it quits for tonight."

Rommath's eyelids were getting heavy, but it looked like Cyrel was scowling, at least from where he sat. Or rather, where he  _leaned_ , dead weight on Kael's shoulder.

"But," she said, "you promised—"

"I'll make it up to you," Kael told her. "Promise. For sure. You can hold me to that."

The girl pursed her lips in a prim smile. Like she knew something Rommath couldn't quite grasp.

But he never figured it out, because that was the precise point in the night when his memory went missing.

Except the part where Cyrel screamed when Kael fucked her, and the rhythmic thud of his headboard against the wall opposite where Rommath lay, limp and damn-near lifeless.

* * *

When morning returned, it did so with a vengeance.

He'd half-cracked one eye and was greeted promptly by an explosion: bright noise and loud light, or— _Light_ , his head.

The prince was making quite a clamor as he staggered through the sitting room in pursuit of last night's date.

"Oh, it's  _fine_ ," she was saying—shouting, rather—as she stepped over the ruins of last night. "Really. I wasn't expecting any attachments. I know better—always have, you know. You should hear what the gossips say about you. They're not kind, believe me."

"Beg your pardon?" Kael replied.

The prince didn't take kindly to insults or insolence; Rommath had learned from others.

"Everyone knows you can't keep a girl for more than eight hours," she said matter-of-factly. "And everyone's got their own theories as to why. I don't particularly care either way. I didn't come here for a relationship. I came to make sure you followed through. You had promises to keep, dear prince, and I—"

"Did I not make it up to you?"

"You were supposed to put in a good word for me."

"That's exactly what I did. Minus a few words, is all."  _Pause_. "Put...it...in… Okay, basically."

"Are you  _fucking_  serious? This isn't a joke, Kael'thas. That's my career you just shot down—my future! You realize I'm not going to have a chance with the gr—"

"Lower your voice, would you? He's a light sleeper."

"You—he— _ah_! Hah!" she sputtered. "Unbelievable. Well, I wouldn't want to disturb him!"

Rommath couldn't tell with his eyes squeezed shut, but the singing splash that followed sounded a lot like shattering glass.

"No, you wouldn't," the prince assured her.

"Because I'm sure you'd start some sultry scandal about me if I dare spoke of this to anyone, yes?" She scoffed. "Just to drive the point home. Because, you know, it's not enough that he  _stole_  my recommendation, right? You're a manipulative bastard, you know. There's something wrong in your head."

 _Silence_.

Then a sigh, long and measured, the kind that hissed through clenched teeth. That was Kael. "Your shoes are by the door."

"You won't even see me out? I've not been sufficiently insulted, I suppose?"

"Simply a suggestion," said Kael. "I  _suggest_  that you pick them up within the next ten seconds, or I'll turn them to ash. Fair?"

If the girl had any protest in mind, she was wise enough to hold her tongue. But she made her stance quite clear with a swift slam of the door on her way out.

And then it was still. Still enough that Rommath stopped feeling like someone was trying to chisel his skull into their next masterpiece, at least for a moment.

"Pretend if you'd like," said Kael with a sigh. "I know you're awake."

Cautiously, Rommath opened an eye.

The prince pushed a hand through his hair, freshly tangled from a night of sound sleep. "What did you hear?"

"Nothing I understood." Rommath blinked blearily at him. "I don't think I like her."

Kael laughed at that—loudly, but Rommath didn't mind this time. "I don't think I like her either," he said. "You feeling better?"

With a good deal of effort and some help from the prince, Rommath managed to get himself upright with little more than a groan. "Head hurts."

"I'm not surprised," said Kael with a smirk. "I've got something for that."

The prince vanished in a couple short strides, and Rommath dropped his gaze back to his lap so he wouldn't stare after him. His hands wore fresh bandages, winding their way up his arms. Crisp, clean linen.

Kael returned with a wineskin, half-empty, and delivered it to Rommath alongside a reassuring smile.

When uncorked, the smell was strong enough to bring tears to his eyes, and his stomach gave a grudging growl. "Do I have to?"

"Hair of the dog," the prince told him. "Not too much, now. I'm all out of vases."

Rommath glared petulantly at him; the sting in his eyes wasn't helping.

"In all seriousness, though, no open flames around that stuff."

The warning label tied to the neck of the wineskin vouched for the prince's honesty, if the smell wasn't proof enough.

"Unless you're trying to start a trend of exploding people's houses," Kael added. "Ought to start calling you Rommath Homewrecker. How's that for a surname?"

His wince had less to do with the splitting headache, this time. "Am I?"

"What?" The prince frowned. "Oh, don't be ridiculous. The girl was a she-wolf. I didn't have any intentions of—no, don't even try to blame yourself for that. I don't want any of those thoughts in your head, understand?"

Rommath didn't suppose there was room in his head for "any of those thoughts" anyhow, what with the massive headache that had taken up residence there.

"Oh!" Kael exclaimed. "That's right—I've got something for you." He swiped a sheet of parchment off the end table, handing it to Rommath as he took his place on the armrest beside him. "Courier dropped that off at dawn. Your eyes only, he said. So naturally, I opened it."

Rommath frowned. "How'd they know how to find me?"

"Oh, please," said the prince, rolling his eyes. "Anyone he could possibly ask would tell him that you practically live with me. In all honesty, though, I'd guess whatever poor sod's stuck scrubbing arcane residue off your walls probably tipped him off."

Shrugging, he sipped at his wine and started skimming.

He'd managed to get to the third paragraph before he realized the header read: "From the desk of Belo'vir Salonar, Grand Magister of Quel'Thalas."

At which point he lapsed into the appropriate amount of shock, swallowing hard just so he could gape at the paper.

"You like it?" Kael asked, taking the wine from Rommath's lax hold. "I have it imported from Silvermoon. Embervale's Late Harvest, straight from their reserve line. Strong stuff."

"This letter's from the grand magister, Kael."

The prince nodded. "I read it."

Rommath blinked once, twice, and again, expecting that name to vanish every time he opened his eyes. But there it remained, tattooed across the page by an atrocious hand—years of decrypting Kael's illegible penmanship had finally come in handy, it seemed.

"He's found himself in need of an aide," Rommath said. Reading them aloud didn't make them sound any more believable. His hands shook with excitement and the terror that accompanied all things too good to be true, and the letter shook with it. "H-He's heard about my—my...prolific contributions to the Kirin Tor's research, he says. He thinks I'd make an excellent candidate for consideration, wants to know if I'm available to meet face-to-face for an application within a fortnight."

Rommath felt faint.

The prince, however, looked less than surprised. "Someone was bound to take note of you eventually," he said with a shrug. "You can't honestly believe I'm the only one on the face of Azeroth who gives a damn about your accomplishments."

Perhaps it just felt that way sometimes.

"I suppose they are talking about me in Silvermoon," he said softly, hushed with reverence. "Pity."

The prince's smile faltered, only for a split-second, as if he'd misheard. " _Pity_ , you say?"

"That I can't go," Rommath explained.

"You what?" Kael's fingers twitched twice, then busied themselves with a tangle in his hair, the way he did when he was fretting. "You're not even going to apply?"

Rommath lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "My place is here," he told him. "This is my home."

"Are you afraid of your father, or something? Because I'll—"

"No, no, that's not it at all." He shook his head slowly, struggling for words. "I—I...I'm your stained glass."

The prince stifled a scoff—barely. "I don't understand," he said hastily. "What do you mean you—you won't—I'm not going to have you miss an opportunity like this, not because of me. I'd never forgive myself."

He stared at him, watching Kael watch that fateful letter. The words stuck in his throat, but he could hear them just fine in his head, clear as the bell tolling twelve outside the window:

" _Don't you want me to stay?"_

But he just kept staring, as always, silent and sad-eyed.

"C'mere." The prince pulled him into a hug before he even got the chance to obey, patting his hair in a gesture that was probably supposed to resemble comfort. "You've got to go. You've got to apply, at the least. Understand?"

Slowly, he nodded.

"If you won't, I'll order you," said Kael in that smirking tone of his. He only pulled rank when he wanted something. "Don't make me do that."

Rommath made a face that would've put the pathetic in apathetic, had he not hidden it in the crook of Kael's shoulder.

"Go make me proud, all right?" Kael told him.

He could feel the prince's smile through his hair, even when he nodded, and he meant it this time.

Rommath always did as he was told.


	9. Ignite

_Ignite_

Unlike most epics, Rommath's story did not end with applause.

Just silence.

Silence, and the soft spatter of rain.

The grand magister rose on three legs—two that ached at the knees and one that held most of his weight, a staff shaped like a sliver of sunburst.

The Day of the Dead was beginning to resemble its dreadful name. Clouds like shadow crowded the sun out of the sky, and the threat of lightning grew less idle with every passing roll of thunder. The air was thick and humid, pushed about by a chilly eastbound breeze that stank of salt and the sea.

"Ought to seek shelter," Rommath observed.

The skies spoke louder, drowning his words with an ill-timed rumble from the heavens above. He made no effort to ensure Aethas had heard.

But lo, before his staff could take its first step, Sunreaver had stopped him, freckled fingertips fluttering across his forearm. " _Wait_ —"

"It's storming, Sunreaver," he said. "I'm heading home. I suggest you do the same."

"The story—"

"Have you ever been struck by lightning, Archmage?" the grand magister asked, snatching his arm out of reach.

Aethas frowned twice as hard as normal, clenching his teeth tight like he'd just taken a couple million volts. "No," he said curtly. "Have you?"

"Of course not," said the grand magister, "because I'm not a fool, and I don't sit on the edge of fountains during thunderstorms."

"Wait, now—" Aethas was on his feet in an instant, and Rommath maintained no delusions that he could possibly outrun him. "You've been perfectly polite this whole time. Fact of the matter is I almost thought we were enjoying ourselves for a moment there. Think you set a record low "words to insults" ratio, frankly—it can't end here."

"Weren't you paying attention?" he said stiffly. "I lived in Dalaran for eleven years. I was eight during the first story, and nineteen during the last. Basic arithmetic dictates that it can—and  _will_ —end here." He slung a rivulet of rainwater out of one eye in a makeshift gesture of farewell. "Good day, Sunreaver."

The storm had slicked the stone streets, making marblework into mirrors—dozens upon dozens of irregular shapes, each reflecting a different Rommath as he made his way back to Sunfury Spire.

* * *

Thalassian storms didn't last long, and neither did Rommath's respite.

The Day of the Dead had hardly become the Late-Afternoon-Not-Quite-Eve of the Dead before the grand magister found himself under siege once more.

He'd been sitting in his office, sunken deep into a velvet armchair and a treatise on temporal warping with a fresh cup of white tea when the knock came. And somehow, he just sensed it was Sunreaver.

"You know, I get this tug in my gut whenever you're within twenty yards of me," said the grand magister through the cracked door. "I think it's my common sense's way of shaking me by the shoulders and shouting, 'Flee, you fool!' But alas…" He gritted his teeth, pushed out the last of his words through the pain, "Bad knees."

"I brought you something," Aethas announced. He gave Rommath a bright grin, so blinding he could scarcely make out what the archmage had brought along.

"A book?"

"What? No, no. That's mine." He pressed a leatherbound satchel into Rommath's free hand. "It's tea."

Rommath lifted the satchel to his nose for a whiff. So it was.

"For you to drink," Aethas added.

"Oh, is that how that works?"

"It occurred to me that, what with all the recent goings-on, I might've forgotten to thank you." He shrugged a shoulder. "For rescuing me and whatnot."

By "goings-on," Rommath could only assume he meant alternating complaints and tirades—the topics of which rarely strayed beyond Jaina Proudmoore—because Rommath knew for certain Sunreaver hadn't forgotten to make time for that.

"Did you know white tea is said to possess anti-inflammatory properties?" said Sunreaver, smiling. "And promotes cardiovascular health, among other  _invigorating_ —"

The grand magister silenced him with a decidedly dramatic sip from his drink, swallowing with an equally obnoxious sigh. "I had no idea."

"Well, Melaris down by Silvermoon Alchemy will tell you all about it," Aethas assured him. "Nice lad. Very enthusiastic about plants."

Rommath had met Melaris on multiple occasions, most often when he was purchasing white tea.

"Anyway," said Sunreaver with a wave of his hand, "that's not why I came."

Try as he might, Rommath just couldn't seem surprised.

"I did some reading." He thrust the book toward Rommath, who just barely caught it in the crook of his arm as Sunreaver shouldered past him. "Seems that exalted ancestor of yours was quite fond of a Sunstrider himself."

Rommath stared at the ton of bricks propped on his hip. "Why do you have a copy of my family's chronicle…?"

"My father was the court treasurer," Sunreaver said, as he said often. "Knowing your clientele is just part of the work."

Rommath wasn't sure he knew his own father any better than he knew Sunreaver's, but he didn't think the High Minister of Arcane Magic would've let one of those "red-headed social climbers" so much as touch his money as long as his heart was beating.

"It's all there, old man," Aethas went on. "Page forty-two. The caption sums it up quite nicely: 'Several accounts report that Magister Aelorath Falor'dore served King Dath'Remar Sunstrider loyally as royal consort until his failing health demanded he return home, where he remained under the care of his wife and eldest daughter until his eventual death.' There's a beautiful illustration, if you'd like to—"

"I'd rather not," said Rommath, curling his arm around the book protectively. "If it's all the same to you, leastways."

Sunreaver smirked as he seated himself on the edge of Rommath's desk. "Interesting, is it not?"

Aside from Aethas Sunreaver's ever-increasing audacity, the grand magister could spot nothing even remotely "interesting" about any of this.

"A curious coincidence, at the very least," he pressed. "You're not the first in your family to fall in love with a prince."

He narrowed his eyes, skewering Sunreaver with a sliver of a stare. "Genetics are odd like that, I guess."

"Very," Aethas agreed.

Rommath hip-checked the door with a beleaguered sigh. "What do you want, Sunreaver?"

The redhead gave a good flinch at the words, dull as they were. "The rest of it."

"The rest of what?"

"The story," Aethas insisted. "I—we were having a nice enough time."

"There's nothing nice after that," Rommath said dismissively.

"Bullshit," said Sunreaver. "I don't buy that, not for a second. Spill."

"Spill?" he echoed, turning the word so cold it made his teeth ache. "I'm not a work of fiction to be picked up and thumbed through so you can pull out any pages that catch your eye. Those are my memories—I was breathing and blinking through every last one—they're quite real. Would you like me to strip so you can see the rest of the scars?"

"I meant no offense," Aethas told him, his politician's prose faltering. "I only—I just—it was nice to think about someone else for a moment there."

"Yes, I imagine that must be a  _vastly_  foreign concept to you."

There was a fresh flush creeping up behind his freckles. "It's a bit difficult to keep my eyes off myself while everyone in this damned city's staring," he said grimly. "If you think my introspection is anything but kind, you're gravely mistaken, old man." Sunreaver's smirk had gone sour now. "Lately, the voice in my head sounds less like me and more like you."

"If it sounded at all like me, there wouldn't be a memorial to the Purge of Dalaran standing where everyone can see it on their way out of Silvermoon," he hissed. "Or a bomb in Theramore, or a "Divine Bell Debacle," or an orphan sobbing in the seat beside me at a speech for his dead—"

" _Rommath_."

He couldn't recall the last time he'd heard his name come so close to a plea.

Yes he could.

But he was done indulging memories for the day, wasn't he?

Not Aethas.

Sunreaver was staring, shocked and horrified. His breaths were strained and measured now, his cheeks burning with anger, and the hand he'd kept hidden in his pocket balled itself into a white-knuckled fist. But then the anger vanished, as quickly as it had appeared, cut short by the tiniest crunch from within Aethas' palm.

Uncharacteristically silent, he withdrew his hand from his pocket, frowning at his fingers as they unfurled, so slow it could've been mistaken for hesitance.

But Rommath knew sorrow when he saw it, and Sunreaver's stare screamed  _sadsadsad_.

It might've been a stalk of mageroyal, at some point, but the petals were browned and wilted now.

"A flower," Rommath noted, failing to see the significance.

He wouldn't have pressed for an explanation, but from the way Aethas sighed, drawn-out and a little too shaky for his taste, he could tell where this was headed.

"It was from one of the shopkeepers. Miss Cinderweave, I do believe her name was." Sunreaver smoothed out the petals, long-dried and brittle to the touch. "I was supposed to have dinner with her that evening. Hardly knew her, but she was a sweet girl with a bright smile, and I thought maybe it would be a nice night and all. I brought her the flower that morning, but she wouldn't keep it. Something about how I was such a busy young man, that she wanted me to keep it near to me until I saw her again, to make sure I didn't forget about her."

Blood welled from a pinprick wound in Aethas' palm, but he didn't seem to mind the thorns. Rommath supposed he could postpone his scowl for now.

"She's dead," said Sunreaver, shrugging. "I don't know the details, and I guess I don't really care. Doesn't matter which spellbreaker ran her through and shook her corpse off his blade. I might as well have held the sword myself." He plucked a petal free, pinching it between thumb and forefinger as he inspected it, idly. "You know what I mean?"

Rommath stared as the petal left Aethas' fingers, trembling as it drifted downward on a pendulum descent.

"No, I don't suppose you do." He shoved the flower back in his pocket as he heaved himself to his feet, shoulders sagging like his conscience perched on either side. "And I hope you never do, old man."

Had Rommath been a little less familiar with the arrangement of his anatomy, he would've sworn his heart had dropped right out of his ribcage and landed in his large intestine. Colder than a ball of ice and twice as hard.

" _Sit_."

Sunreaver stared blankly at him, wearing that same stupid look, with about six shades of sorrow layered over the top.

" _Sunreaver_ ," he said, "I'm not going to beg. Sit."

"I'm not a dog—"

"Say nothing," Rommath told him. "If I'm going to go on, you'd better choose your comments wisely." He exhaled a broken breath. "I left for Silvermoon precisely four days later, with a backpack and a bookstrap and a coinpurse tied to my belt. If you were curious, the skies were blue and the clouds looked gold in the late afternoon light."


	10. -VIII-

_-VIII-_

"Kael…?" Rommath repeated.

The prince hadn't heard. He stared at the horizon as they strode through Silvermoon's streets, squinting against the sunlight. "Hm?"

"The sky." His gaze flicked across the crowds clinging to the sidewalk—Feth's Way was full of rich folk and windowshoppers, but today, all eyes were on the prince. "Beautiful isn't it?"

Kael spared him a sidelong glance, complete with his characteristic crooked smile. "Didn't notice," he told him. "The colors—a good omen, you think?"

Shrugging beneath the weight of his backpack, Rommath lifted his eyes back to the clouds. "I'm praying."

"Well, don't waste your breath," said the prince. That glance of his was rapidly approaching the border between polite and prying. "Ought to save it for your introduction."

Rommath frowned. "You said I sounded fine."

"Yes, well—" The prince waved a hand, either dismissing the comment or the busty lass who grinned at him from across the street. "—it  _did_  sound fine at five in the morning," he told him. "Sounded even better when you promised it was the last time before bed."

"Do you think it needs more work?"

The prince pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a lengthy sigh. "More?"

"I'm stressed," Rommath said matter-of-factly.

"You're  _always_  stressed," Kael muttered. "I don't know how you can live like this, honestly. One day your heart's just going to quit on you, I swear."

Rommath's frown deepened.

"Oh, don't—" Kael shoved at his shoulder. "Stop that. The thing with your lip. Don't be all pouty, now—"

"—I'm  _not_  pouting—"

"—you look pathetic when you pout. If you make that face in front of the grand magister, he's going to think you're a fool."

"You're not very helpful," Rommath told him.

"I stayed up till dawn packing your things with you!" he cried, incredulous.

And had promptly passed out sprawled on the floor with a pile of Rommath's possessions as his pillow at the first sight of light on the horizon. But Rommath had woken beside him, so he wasn't in much of a mood to complain.

"Would you feel better if you gave it one more try?" Kael asked, pushing the words past his lips on an exasperated sigh.

Rommath shrugged. He supposed he'd feel better if he knew the next time they'd be seeing each other.

An intrusive thought, cramming its way into his cluttered mind and dredging up a dozen other Kael-themed images with it.

He banished them with a smile—false, but convincing enough to do its job. Didn't suppose the prince would recognize it anyhow, if this was the first time Rommath had faked it for him.

"Go on then," Kael told him. "Show me some confidence."

Rommath cleared his throat, a vain attempt to dislodge some of the emotion that strangled him silent. "G-Greetings, Grand Magister Salonar. Archmage Rommath, of the Kirin Tor. It's an honor to make your acquaintance." He lifted his chin a little, because the prince had said it made him look less like he'd just pissed himself out of sheer fear. Or perhaps that had only applied at five in the morning. "And then I'll shake his hand and smile."

Kael shook his head, ashamed. " _Louder_ ," he ordered. "Doesn't matter if you've got the best smile in Silvermoon if he can't hear a word you're saying. Try again."

"What's this about my smile now?"

" _Try again_."

Rommath sucked in a steady breath. "Greetings, Grand Magister—"

"Louder," Kael insisted.

"Greetings—"

" _Louder_."

"That's it," he said helplessly. "I don't—I can't get any louder."

The prince graced him with the suggestive smirk he usually saved for someone he wanted to bring to bed. "So they all say."

"Why are you like this?"

"Lacking parental guidance and an utter absence of role model material," the prince replied. "Now let me see that smile."

Rommath gave him the same smile he'd been giving strangers since he was eight. He'd practiced it for four hours at his brother's wake; by the time his father decided to have their family portrait repainted, just the two of them, he'd just about perfected it. Not that it mattered, anyway. The High Minister of Arcane Magic had destroyed the painting down to the frame within a week. Didn't like to look at it.

"A real smile, if you would," Kael told him.

"That's as real as it gets," Rommath said flatly.

The prince rolled his eyes, surely oblivious to the glint they gave off when he set his stare skyward—gold flecks in his gaze, glittering like the sun itself.

To Rommath, he might as well have been.

But to the prince, it was just a simple gesture, the prelude to another drawn-out sigh—same-old, same-old.

"Eventually, you're going to realize you're a fool for trying to fool me," the prince told him. "But in the meantime, are you sure you've got everything?"

Rommath stopped short at the street corner. "This it?"

The spire that stood before them stretched a good six stories skyward, with banners that soared so high they seemed to scrape the clouds and a shadow that stretched halfway down the street.

Daunting.

Kael tossed an arm around his friend, clapping him on the shoulder for some sort of comfort. "You've got nothing to worry about, all right?"

"But what if—"

"You brought a spare pair of boots?"

"Yes, but—"

"Good. And gloves?"

"Yes, but Kael—"

"Fireproofed?"

"Of course. I was just—"

"Brushes?"

"Mmhm, I j—"

" _All_ of them?"

"I'm just here for a week—"

"Just in case. You know you'll be upset if you want to do something with those bangs of yours."

Rommath sighed, counting them off on his hand: "Soft-bristled, boar-bristled, round brush, fine-toothed comb, wide-toothed comb, teasing brush—"

"Hair product?"

"Yes, Kael."

"All right, all right, so you didn't forget anything." The prince wet his lips—there was a weak spot in his smile. "Long as you remember to come visit me, hm?"

"Forget you?" Rommath watched the prince turn away through wind-whipped hair. "I couldn't if I wanted to."

The prince's lips twitched, just the slightest of smiles, and maybe it was just the time of day—a trick of the light, perhaps—but it seemed to shine. Blinding.

Rommath wanted to reach for him, clutch at his clothes, pull him close for a proper goodbye, but the scene was a hauntingly familiar one, and he didn't suppose the prince would hear if he called his name either.

So he smiled his false smile as Kael blended back into the crowd, save for that white-gold hair of his, so pale it seemed to throw the sunshine right back to the sky, like some mid-afternoon moon or the like—

—and then, in a flash of arcane, the prince materialized before him, so close Rommath could feel the air buzzing with the telltale tingle of a teleportation spell. Dangerously close, in fact—if Kael had miscalculated by even a centimeter, he might've ended up  _inside him_ , and while Rommath had admittedly entertained the thought on more than a few occasions, that wasn't at all the way he'd hoped it would happen.

But the prince's spellwork was, as usual, perfection—effortlessly so, enviably so.

His words, on the other hand...less so. "C'mere," he mumbled, a clumsy foreword to a clumsy embrace—nearly sent them both sprawling.

Rommath reeled accordingly, breathless and winded. But he held on, clung to Kael like his final breath.

"You'd better take care of yourself," the prince muttered, spitting out bits of hair as he spoke. "I'm serious."

"Now, there's a first," Rommath wheezed.

"Fuck, Rom, I'm not kidding," he insisted. "You've just—you've got to, all right?"

It could've been a threat or a plea; sometimes it was impossible to tell with him.

Rommath smiled anyhow, an assurance and apology all in one. "I will."

The prince pulled back, holding him by the shoulders as he scanned him over for any trace of falsehood. "Good. Don't think I won't take the first portal back here the instant I hear even the faintest whisper—no,  _breath_ —of any rumors that you're—you're—" He paused as his gaze and his grip slipped lower, tracing the marks along Rommath's arms through silken sleeves. "Promise me, Rommath. Swear you'll take care of yourself."

He managed a nod for him. "On my honor."

For a moment, Kael stood there staring, just two cobblestones between them; his princely posture suffered when he deflated his lungs for one last sigh, but that smirk of his was bleeding relief.

In that moment, he looked less like royalty and more like Kael the boy.

Kael who skipped lessons to frolic in the snow and never ate his carrots and cried when he was alone. Kael who suffered from stress dreams, the same ones, again and again, Kael who sneaked into Rommath's sheets to steal a pillow when he when he woke scared and sobbing, Kael who swore he'd shear off all Rommath's hair if he so much as breathed a word of this to anyone, Kael who was always snoring softly at his side when the sun slipped through the curtains. Said he was sorry every time, never meant it.

But the moment passed, as moments do, and he'd collected his confidence with crossed arms and a crooked grin. "Go on then. Remember,  _louder_." He lifted one hand, aglow with a whirl of arcane, fingers twitching in the shape of a spell—long-distance teleportation, this one would take him far. "And smile. A real one. I did mean what I said—best in Silvermoon, all right?"

The prince was swallowed up by a burst of violet before Rommath could reply, but it mattered little. He was smiling—a " _real_ " one, however bittersweet.

And after an appropriate wait, which he spent summoning up the courage to march up the stairs, he stood on the top step to the grand magister's spire, hands shaking when his knuckles met wood.

The second the grand magister showed up at the door was the second that Rommath began to realize the grand magister was nothing close to what he'd expected.

He showed up at the door, for one. And promptly, at that.

Belo'vir Salonar was a bit skinny, even for sorcerer, though one wouldn't have guessed he had a drop of magic in his blood at a glance. He kept his hair cropped short and combed like a common man, and he dressed much the same, clad in lynxskin leathers and a less-than-striking brass chain that plunged past his collar, weighed down by a pendant hidden somewhere in his tunic.

Keen eyes, though. He kept them pinned to the pages of a tome he'd stuffed with scraps of paper till the spine bent, seeming to skip from margin to margin as he scribbled along the borders.

Rommath got a good look at them when the grand magister glanced up at him, waiting patiently for him to say something—anything, Rommath realized.

"Greetings, Grand Magister Sal—"

"Belo'vir is just fine," he interrupted, lips tracing a couple silent words as he went on writing. "No need for titles."

Rommath cleared his throat—a meager attempt to swallow his doubt that almost had him choking. "M-My name is Archmage—"

"You must be the boy from Dalaran," said the grand magister. "The accent speaks for you."

He hadn't rehearsed for this. All the words he'd practiced fell back down his throat, and Silvermoon's best smile was looking more like a vacant stare.

Salonar spared him a glance between pages. "Name?"

"Rommath," he answered. At least he sounded certain of that much.

Belo'vir lifted his gaze from the pages, looking him up and down before his eyes settled back on the book. "So you're Edienor's boy?"

The question stung him. Rommath told himself it didn't, but it did.

"You're damned near identical, the two of you." He turned on his heel as he resumed writing, nodding for Rommath to follow. "Down to that nick in your eyebrow."

Absently, he ran a finger along the rend in his brow. "My...um, father's is on the other side…"

"Hm," said Salonar. "I haven't seen him in eons. But I knew him well, years ago." He tossed Rommath a glance over his shoulder. "Do come in, would you? Please. Yes, walk briskly, if you will. Forgive me, I've got dinner to prepare. How is your Darnassian?"

The grand magister walked briskly indeed, turning corners with a crisp pivot and scaling his spiral stairwells two steps at a time.

A ghost of a smile touched Rommath's awestricken expression as he trailed the grand magister down a cavern of a corridor. "Decent," he breathed. "Haven't spoken it in some time, but I can read it well enough."

"I see." Salonar came to a precise halt about halfway down a hall somewhere on the sixth floor, facing Rommath with his nose still buried in his book. "You pack light," he noted, with a polite smile peeking out from the pages. "I admire that."

As he shifted beneath its weight, Rommath wasn't so sure. It seemed a lot for just a week-long stay, but Kael had insisted he bring along everything he could carry ("just in case!"), and Rommath hadn't the heart to admit he'd been hoping he'd have to come back to Dalaran.

"You can leave your belongings in the room on the right," he said, and went on annotating again.

Until Rommath reached for the right-hand doorknob, anyhow.

The grand magister shut the tome with a snap, tossing it to the throes of a levitation spell to give him a hand free to pull the door shut before Rommath even got a whiff of whatever lay beyond—mothballs and mildew, judging by the gust of stale air that escaped with a  _whoosh_  as the door clicked closed.

Salonar smiled stiffly past the tome suspended in the air between them, spinning idly on the breeze. " _My_ right," he clarified.

The dust stung his eyes, but chagrin stung worse. "Apologies," he choked, lowering his eyes. "I thought I—I didn't mean to overstep any—"

"No, no." Belo'vir cut him off with a curt wave, but the words weren't unkind. "Simple mistake, if it qualifies as a mistake at all. We'll call it a misunderstanding, how's that?" He frowned. "Stop looking like I'm going to smack you, if you would. Makes me a tad uncomfortable."

Rommath wet his lips, still wary. "Apologies."

"Nonsense," said Salonar, dismissing it with a flick of his wrist.

To his credit, Rommath didn't flinch—blinked a little harder than usual, but that was all.

"Eyes up, young man," he told him. "You know, I always thought if I sired any children, I'd send them to Dalaran. Not so strict as Silvermoon—they don't strike their students there, at least." He kept his stare earnest. "But you had teachers before Telestra, didn't you?"

The blush had washed out of Rommath's cheeks in a matter of seconds, leaving his face blanched and bloodless.

"You thought I'd invite a stranger into my home without doing some research first?" The grand magister's eyes glimmered, foreshadowing a good-humored grin. "What kind of scholar would that make me?"

A poor one, he supposed, but that didn't sound like the right reply. "I—" Rommath tried, but the sound died in his throat. "Apologies."

"It was a joke," Belo'vir explained. "Or an attempt, at the least." He shook his head. "Fear not, lad. You're not my student, and I don't think I'd want you walking around with any scars shaped like my signet ring even if you were."

Rommath took a breath—felt like his first in centuries. "Yes, milord."

"Not to say you won't be doing any learning here, but I'd prefer not to treat you one, that's all," he said, nudging the book in Rommath's direction. "Would prefer you didn't treat yourself like one either, if it's all the same to you."

He tugged the book out of the air, hugging it close to his chest till the spell wore off.

"Translated a good chunk of it already, but rest assured, I've left plenty for you." He tapped at the book's leather-bound spine for emphasis. "Don't feel rushed or anything—it's nothing pressing. Ought to get yourself settled before you do anything else, really."

A frown pulled at Rommath's lips. "You...don't want to ask me any questions…?"

"Questions?" Belo'vir echoed. "We've got the rest of our indefinite futures to get to know each other, boy. No questions. I've got a dinner to prepare." He flashed him a grin—pride, but not the usual highbrow arrogance magi wore. "Should give you fair warning, I've got a couple of guests coming up. Nothing extravagant, but...I'm sure they'd be delighted to meet you."

"Me?" he asked, hoarse with disbelief.

"I might've told them about you—just a bit, not a lot—well, maybe a lot, but not in a weird way, I assure you. More of...ah, eager anticipation. Not a big deal."

"Told them about me?"

"You're the new aide, are you not?" It had the makings of another joke, but there was a hint of suspicion somewhere beneath Belo'vir's sarcasm. "Light, I hope I didn't send for the wrong Rommath…"

The young man shrugged a shoulder in a most reluctant agreement. This was by far the most unconventional interview he'd ever seen. "I guess I am."

He suddenly felt very glad that he'd packed all his brushes.

"Good." Salonar slapped him on the shoulder, and this time, he didn't even bat an eye. "I'll leave you to it, then. Dinner in two hours. An hour and a half if it all goes well, but...bet on two hours."

Rommath had lived in Dalaran long enough to recognize that a teleportation spell twitching on someone's fingertips translated to a farewell in any language. He didn't take any offense when the grand magister vaporized into thin—albeit smoky—air.

When the arcane residue had cleared out of his lungs, he figured it was about time to stop standing there staring aimlessly at the floor and head into the  _right_  room.

His room, he supposed. And by the Well, if it didn't exceed his every expectation.

Seemed more like a wing than a room at all, with a floor wider than his house back in Dalaran and vaulted ceilings high enough to fit at least four of him—a remarkable feat, considering how often he was teased for his long legs. Three wall-length bookshelves, brimming, two desks with high-backed chairs, and a bed that was just as regal—done up in sheets of Silvermoon blue, with an absurd amount of disk-shaped pillows populating the upper half.

His.

All his.

Of course, he'd miss Dalaran—or Kael, if he was being completely honest, and since there was no one else to see, he was. But  _Light_ , he had his own little library here. Enough books to keep him distracted for a lifetime, perhaps two.

But he'd start with the one in his arms. He hoped to have it finished by dinner, eager as ever to make a good impression—or to make up for the impression he'd already made. After all, he had "the rest of his indefinite future" to explore his quarters. So he chose the taller of the two desks, cracked open the tome at the middle, where Belo'vir had marked his place, and a picked up a quill pen.

Historical Highborne texts were simple work, but by no means painless. They all read the same, with all that flowery prose they'd passed down to the quel'dorei, and invariably fell into one of three categories when it came to content: Queen Azshara, ancient arcane, or some combination thereof.

 _Light of Lights and Her Lady's Royal Courts_  was no exception to this rule. One thousand six hundred twenty-three pages on nobility under Azshara, and then nobility on top of Azshara, whom the author claimed to have kept no less than eighteen royal consorts, at any given time.

Azshara didn't seem very discriminatory when it came to her company. Tall elves, short elves, light elves, dark elves, elves dressed in the finest of silks, elves scarcely dressed at all, ladies and lords alike—the queen welcomed anyone who was willing to kneel for her.

In the words of Her Majesty's Sixth Royal Scribe, " _Immortality breeds decadence._ "

Rommath couldn't suppress a smile when a certain Sunstrider came to mind.

Selective breeding put the prince just four generations down from the very elves that crossed the Great Sea, after all—it was no small wonder that the prince had been born so susceptible to self-indulgence. In fact, if the sixth royal scribe spoke the truth, Kael could've been way worse off.

(Worse off being one of the numerous poor souls who'd died due to suffocation when Azshara's famed "rosepetal roof" collapsed, though all the survivor accounts said it was a true spectacle, not to be missed.)

Rommath heaved a sigh, clearing his lungs and his thoughts of princes with them, and went on with his tedious work with renewed vigor.

Which lasted about ten minutes, anyway, till he reached a...particularly detailed page of illustrations featuring some particularly detailed depictions of an Aszunian orgy to commemorate the coming of age of some young prince, who had been presented with a number of...enlarged genitalia in celebration, exaggerated to show "particular detail."

His conscious brain said to roll his eyes and easily acknowledged the excessively explicit art.

His subconscious brain was sending a sizable sum of his blood rushing south, effectively silencing its counterpart.

But Rommath had spent his "formative" years sharing a room with the subject of all his sexual fantasies, see, and if he hadn't learned some semblance of self-control early only...he didn't like to think what might've happened had Kael caught him "studying under the sheets."

Well...maybe he liked to indulge his imagination from time to time. It was actually a pretty common subject of the aforementioned sexual fantasies, but—

_Stop._

He didn't need to dwell on that, not now. He had pressing matters to attend to. None of which included the matter pressing against the inseam of his pants.

He gripped the pen a bit tighter, because he supposed he had to grip something, and the quillpen was the most prominent—no, productive,  _productive_ , Rommath—most  _productive_  object in sight.

 _You're better than this_.

Rommath had been breathing for nearly two decades by this point—now was  _not_  the time for exact dates—and he had never punctuated a sentence so precisely as he did when he'd finished with that page. He let the ink bleed as he sighed and swallowed and steeled his nerves, ready for relief when he flipped to the next—

And instead found a full-page, full-color, graphic elaboration of the fertility festival of the spring solstice. Not that Rommath needed any elaboration—Silvermoon had plenty just like it, and the high elves had dragged all their traditions down to Dalaran—but he'd never seen anything quite so...dramatic…

 _Fucking Highborne_.

_No, no. Think of—I don't know, any other descriptor. Please._

_Think of—just...don't think. That's better._

Using his free hand like a blinder, he trained his gaze on the opposite page, with his pen pressing ever-harder against the parchment. For the four minutes following, his handwriting had never been worse.

But ultimately, his critical mistake was trying to distract himself from all that  _detail_ by letting his mind drift toward the art itself—who painted it, how had their hand stayed so steady, could they teach him how to do that, how long had it taken, how had the models used as reference felt—

_Light, no. Rommath. Stop._

He slouched deeper into his chair, sacrificing good posture to dedicate all his energy to self-restraint.

_All right. All right. Lean back, breathe. Yes. Like that._

_Another. No, a deep breath._

_Deeper._

_Deeper than_ —

_Rommath. No._

_Think about...frost spells? Okay, that's a good one. Frost spells. Could always work on those. The...ah, the intricacies of complex frost barriers, lattice-patterned ice versus web-patterned_ — _I hate frost spells._

_Ice water, maybe? That's cold. And easier._

_Very cold water. Cold, stale bathwater. Gross. Probably forgot my towel, again._

_Saw towels on the shelf above the bed, though._

_Bet you could use them to clean up_ —

He exhaled a shaky sigh, fingers twitching absently as they strained in search of something to occupy their attention, besides the obvious.

_You're useless, you know. Seven hundred pages of ancient Highborne text to translate, minus however many full-page illustrations, and you're sitting here trying to persuade yourself that your time's not better spent pleasuring yourself on that pile of absurd looking pillows._

_Useless._

_But the door locks. It's a sign._

So he went for the towel anyhow.

The desk was only a few wobbly steps from where he stood, and that accursed book only a few inches farther, but Rommath didn't have any intentions of returning to that tome till he'd sorted out the situation it had risen. He took a seat on the edge of the bed instead—not  _on,_  but  _adjacent to_  those absurd-looking pillows.

To hell with the book. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it quickly, and unless that tome had an updated afterword on the Sunstrider dynasty and its youngest heir, he'd have better luck relying on his vivid imagination.

Kael was long-gone by now—had probably already picked a pretty companion for the evening, maybe even a couple—but Rommath had spent enough evenings with the prince snoozing on his shoulder to visualize his weight there, effortlessly.

And he'd watched Kael kiss enough girls from the armchair across the parlor, forgotten, to picture himself perfectly in their place—how the prince always twisted up the hair at the base of their necks, gripped tight at shoulders, hips, bones where he could hold tight to their very frames.

He'd heard the youngest Sunstrider shudder a sigh along their throats, hot breath on skin wet with kisses, made their skin tingle and break into goosebumps, and they were always so captivated by Kael's lips that they never noticed when he worked his way into the ties of their clothes.

The prince had often said that all Sunstriders were sorcerers, in every sense of the word; always spoke the words through a smirk.

As often as he'd found himself the tagalong to all Kael's misadventures, Rommath had a good idea just which methods the prince favored—could play them out effortlessly on the backs of his eyelids as they fluttered closed, paired with a smirk of his own as he slipped a slick hand past the laces of his pants.

But the smile was short-lived anyhow, succeeded by a shiver when his fingers found their grip on something slightly more satisfying than a pen, settling on a steady pace so as not to interrupt the increasingly explicit works of his mind.

His thoughts made the seamless transition from kissing to graceless grinding, hips knocking clumsily against each other in the loosest definition of rhythm and chests pressed so close there was only a breath between them—rapid breathing, flanks heaving.

Rommath had never seen Kael undress anyone—the prince usually asked for some privacy when he started tugging at his trousers—but he had a few theories regarding his technique, none of which were all that gentle. Pulling, tugging, yanking—never tearing, even princes had their boundaries, and for someone who seemed so intent on unclothing all of Dalaran, he'd always been fond of fabrics and finery.

Once they'd stripped down to the last layer, just skin against skin, then Kael would take it upon himself to fuck him, as Kael was wont to do—and brutally, at that. Hasty, desperate, white-knuckled, pulse-pounding,  _please-please-please-don't-stop_  fucking. The kind that even made "sex" sound too intimate—even his boundless imagination couldn't fall for a fantasy that resembled anything more—more,  _more, Light_ —

But he didn't have to imagine the tension building in his tendons, or the occasional intermittent jerk of his hips, or his lungs as they made the sudden subtle shift from breaths to gasps, just shy of groans. What little air he had left pushed its way past his lips with an unceremonious moan, cut short by teeth clenched in his lower lip. And when the lust spilled over, it did so quite literally, beading on the bathtowel, cooling as it sank through the linen, darkening into splotches that mirrored the spots in Rommath's vision.

The scenes that lined his mind ground to a halt as his senses returned to him, one by one, followed in due time by a welcome surge of blood to his brain as his heart began pumping properly once more.

He rode out the headrush flat on his back, eyelids heavy as his pulse roared in his ears, with four half-moon marks fading from his palm and his heart beating like a cadence in his chest; as Kael faded from his thoughts, so did all else.

* * *

"Should I just leave it by the door?"

Rommath blinked blindly at the darkness before him, lashes fluttering as his mind scrambled to put his thoughts in order.

No sun streaming through the west-facing window, no light at all, save the yellow glow leaking in from beneath the door, divided in two by the shadow knocking at his door.

"A moment please," he called, running his tongue over chapped lips. "A-Apologies, I'll be right there."

Light, he hadn't meant to fall asleep—but then, when did he ever?

Rommath made himself decent as he could manage as he stumbled through the darkness, smoothing out his composure—and his shirt, for that matter—as he unlocked the door.

He was met with a curtsy from a quaint-looking lass, sun-tanned shoulders and copper hair tied back in a ponytail, with a little crease under each eye that suggested she spent a lot of her time smiling.

She held a platter nestled in the crook of one freckled forearm, stacked with fresh fruits and a myriad of skewered meats. "Dinner," she explained, offering him custody of the food. "Belo'vir had me run it up to you. Figured you were busy unpacking and all." She flicked her gaze toward his bedhead, but smothered her smile behind a few fingers. "I've got another theory, myself."

Rommath smoothed self-consciously at his hair, tucking a loose strand behind his ear. He had neither the heart nor the audacity to correct her.

"Some sliced melon, about six sorts of grapes for you, blackberries, few types of truffles, couple raspberry tarts, and then you've got a nice assortment of meats—rabbit, pheasant, sauteed lynx, roast lynx, um, more lynx, and the potatoes, which I highly recommend." She grinned. "Hear they're a real treasure."

One whiff and he believed her. But knowing Silvermoon's nobility like he did, Rommath would've wagered Salonar's kitchen staff was trained to a much higher standard of culinary excellence than anyone within Dalaran's walls.

Telestra had raised her boys on porridge and bread with holes where she'd carved out the moldy bits. Rommath hadn't eaten anything the likes of this since he was eight years old and his life still made sense. He wondered if Kelemir was still manning his father's kitchens, and the rest of the estate when the High Minister of Arcane Magic wouldn't leave his locked study.

"I made the potatoes," she said, speaking the words like a secret.

He nodded politely, mumbled his thanks with one hand resting on the doorknob.

The girl did not take the hint. She swayed to and fro instead, cheerfully oblivious to his discomfort. "Of course!" She clasped her hands behind her back as she rocked on her heels. "If you need anything else, don't hesitate to ask. But, um..."

"Ah," Rommath realized with a start. "Apologies. You're dismissed."

"Dismissed…?" She halted mid-sway, staggering a couple steps in an effort to keep her balance—quite literally taken aback. "Well. The way Belo'vir was going on about you, I'd have guessed you were at least marginally less arrogant than the rest of the sorcerers in this Lightforsaken city," she said with a scoff. "Just what Silvermoon needs, another self-centered prick who thinks they're the next sun, come to redirect the tides or some shit. But I'll bet the only thing big enough for that is your damned ego."

Rommath ignored her deliberate glare, directed right below his belt. "Well, the sun doesn't affect the tides all that—"  _Light, she looks scarier_. "—ah, um, nevermind."

" _What_?"

"The moons," he mumbled, hasty and unintelligible, at least he hoped. "The moons control the tides."

"Oh, whatever. Try to make you feel welcome and this is what I get. Condescension, plain and simple." She stopped short to suck in a breath, but her glare never wavered, not for a heartbeat. "Being compassionate doesn't put me beneath you, y'know. It's that mindset that makes this city so damned miserable all the time. And all the socialites sit around with their fake smiles wondering why everyone north of the Elrendar is about as emotionally accessible as an arcane construct. Light. Fucking absurd, that's what it is."

Rommath stood there, stiffer than a preybeast pinned down beneath her state.

"Nothing? You don't have anything to say for yourself?" she asked. "Wouldn't want to seem approachable or anything, would you? Light forbid—give me that—" She snatched a single tart off the rim of his plate, but he learned in a matter of split-seconds that no amount of powdered sugar could sweeten that scowl of hers. "—by the Well, when he said you were your father's spitting image, I thought the similarities stopped skin-deep."

"He's not my father," was how he should've replied. No doubt the High Minister of Arcane Magic would've responded in kind.

"You know my father?" he blurted instead.

And he hated himself instantly for it, the way those words dripped with desperation. As if the not-so-serving girl had any idea whether the man thought of him, missed him, mentioned him in smalltalk, still hung a stocking every Winter Veil with his name embroidered down the center, empty and sagging the way his brother's had.

Edienor Falor'dore was more enigma than man; if his son had ever crossed his mind in the last year, the words would've never passed his lips.

"Well, not personally," she muttered. Of course not—no one did. "But I've heard plenty from Belo'vir. High Minister of High and Mighty, more like."

The realization hit him like blunt trauma, but he took the blow unflinching, unblinking. That was what they'd see when they looked his way—he could spurn his father's name, his house, his inheritance, but he couldn't renounce the blood that ran in his veins.

Because he had his father's face and his mother's voice, too soft to speak against their assumptions.

The same voice that caught in his chest now, came out like a cough when he stuttered, "I just thought—the curtsy—the food—the potatoes—"

All that did was pour a nice thick layer of ire over her indignation. And further cement Rommath's hypothesis that he was simply awful at women. "You thought I was a servant?"

"I-I—I realize the error now—"

"Light, no—I'm just a nice fucking person," she said, oh-so-convincingly.

He'd never felt so small as he did on the sixth floor of Salonar's spire, in this colossal city, next to a scrawny lass with a temper as fiery as her hair. No one would mistake him for his father now, of that he was certain.

"I'm sorry," he said, with his shoulders sagging.

It could've been the way he squeezed his eyes shut, like he was awaiting the back of her hand, but she stayed silent, eyes narrowed to slits.

"H-Honest," he said. "My sincerest apologies."

"Apologies?" Her sickle-sharp stare softened. "I'll be damned. Maybe you're not a magister after all."

He shrugged; only by right of blood, he supposed.

"Liadrin," she said, after an appropriate cooling period. "Didn't mean to snap at you. Eternally at war with my temper and whatnot. But that's all well and good—'through our toils we're made stronger.'"

He knew the words. His mother had spoken them—often, in the last few months he'd known her.

She stuck out a hand, presumably a gesture of goodwill, and Rommath shook it—slowly, still half expecting her to scratch his eyes out. But nevertheless, he held her gaze, and for a good three seconds at that—a record, far as he was concerned—before a familiar little relic caught his eye.

Rosewood and ivory, tied tight to her wrist.

"Prayer beads," she explained, like she'd spoken the words before. "Old tradition—don't worry, it's not real bone or anything. I know a couple priests who still save knucklebones from their loved ones lost, but I think it's starting to fall out of practice."

Rommath had a set just like it hanging from his neck—a gift from the prince, all those years ago, but eight years had diminished neither their perfumed scent nor sentimental value. "They're exquisite," he murmured.

"You think so?" Liadrin lifted her arm to admire them in closer detail. "I'll have to tell Elenora they scored me a compliment. It'll make her day, I'm sure."

Rommath's ear twitched at the tip. "Who?"

"El?" she asked, shaking the beads back below the cuff of her sleeve. "Another priestess. Made the beads for my seventh birthday. A real sweetheart—she and Vandellor got on pretty well, both grew up in the temple, as—"

"We've met," he said, in a voice like a whisper.

Liadrin leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed and curious. "Oh?"

"Yeah."

Was the same woman who'd held him the whole way home on his last day of lessons, smoothed back his hair and shushed his sobbing. Kept asking what happened, wanted to know where the blood was coming from.

"Remarkable woman," Liadrin went on. "Teaches anatomy of healing on weekdays."

 _Head wounds bleed a lot, sweet boy. They often look much worse than they are. Let me see your back, hm? Did he lash you through your shirt? Your father will have to have a word with him. No, no, you don't have to go back, Rommath, we'll get you a new teacher. Shh_ — _come here_ — _take a deep breath, all right? You don't want to what? I can't understand you when you mumble, love. Well, you don't have to learn magic, then. He'll still be proud of you. I promise_.

"Think she's been there for years," said Liadrin, but her words barely reached Rommath's ears. "Just weekends, at first. Then full-time, when she moved back to the sanctuary."

The High Minister of Arcane Magic, just a few years into his reign at the time, had not been pleased. When he spoke, the room got colder: " _Who?_ "

And with a flick of his wrist and a tight grip on his son's, they'd been ripped out of existence and dropped at the feet of Instructor Antheol in a burst of violet light. The young man was still collecting his materials when Edienor seized him by the collar, with a fistful of arcane pulsing dangerously close to his face.

Rommath couldn't see from where he'd stood, head hanging to hide the last of his tears, but he could hear just fine, even when his father's voice dropped dangerously low:

 _Perhaps you misunderstood, instructor, but I paid you to_ teach _my son, not pummel him with a stick. I will expect full reimbursement for the rest of the quarter_ — _ah, ah, no flinching, arcane burns, you know_ — _I'll need that by the end of the month, if you'd be so kind. And if you ever lay a hand on my son_ — _or anyone's, save maybe your own_ — _I will personally oversee the economic evisceration of your House, and everyone whose name just so happens to sound like yours. Am I clear?_

"Was a real tragedy, though," Liadrin continued, clucking her tongue. The sound hardly registered with Rommath. "She never said a word, but talk around the temple said her husband threw her out, just out of the blue—"

Not quite.

"—and we were all happy to have her, of course, but she just couldn't stop crying."

His mother and father had fought like snakes, soft voices slithering in through the crack beneath his bedroom door, when the hour was late and the night was darkest.

 _You told him_ what _?_

 _He doesn't want to practice magic, Edie, please_ —

 _Because you've been filling his head with nonsense, naturally. Said he wanted to be a tailor two weeks ago and you've let him pick out all your outfits since. You can't indulge that rubbish, don't you understand? No, I don't suppose you can_ — _the intricacies of social class are bred, not learned._

She'd been corrupting his son with her "base thinking." She had to go.

Rommath hated it, but he understood.

His father had never been wrong, not once in the eight years Rommath had known him.

"But she's always smiling, now." Liadrin's words were a lifeline to the young archmage, adrift and drowning in distant memories. But the tides rolled with unstoppable force, like the waves of the Great Sea, crashing against the cliffs of his childhood home. "Doesn't say a lot, though."

She'd spoken with him before she left, a shadow kneeling by his bedside—kissed him on the forehead, tears sparkling in the dark, she hadn't meant to wake him.

 _I've got to go, Rommath, my sweet boy, my precious boy. I don't know, I...I'm not sure how long. I'm going to miss you too...you know I'd bring you if I_ — _well, I didn't ask you what your father wanted, silly boy, what do_ you— _no, he won't be mad, not at you, love_ — _please don't cry, quiet now_ —

His mother had long hair, red-amber like the sun setting over the sea; his father had taken a handful of it and pulled her to her tiptoes, while she sobbed out sorries— _Edie, please_ —and Rommath had hidden his face in the blankets, but he could still hear his father's voice, clear as the one in his head:

 _Your audacity precedes you. You will_ not _take my son from me. Get out of my sight._ Go.

My son, he'd said. My son.

The words had bounced around the walls of Rommath's skull like a whisper in a cavern; he almost couldn't hear the  _thunk_  when the High Minister of Arcane Magic prompted her with the flat of his hand, his signet ring against his lips.

Almost.

_Eleven years, one month, six days._

"Don't suppose she should've been so quick to for—"

"She's my mother," Rommath said softly, his reluctant return to reality.

Somewhere in his periphery, Liadrin was refocusing her gaze, working her features into a frown. "No shit," she breathed. "So you're the one she's been writing all this time?"

He stared at a fixed point on the opposite wall, chewing at the inside of his cheek as he searched for something to say. Fifteen seconds of straight silence and all he could come up with was, "Is she okay?"

About eleven years too late.

"Okay?" She shrugged a shoulder. "Sure, can always tell how she's doing by the state of the wildflowers along the southern wall. They're blooming beautifully now—she takes good care of them—but...well, I think it'll be nice for her to be so close to you."

Rommath winced like the words were a weapon, aimed just inches from his heart.

"I'm sure you'll love it here too," she told him, twisting her fingers awkwardly. "The city's a bit scary, but you smart folk seem to manage just fine."

His collar felt tight—too tight, like the smile twitching on his lips. "Don't know if I'd call myself  _smart_ ," he said. "Just got...connections, I guess."

Veins and arteries connected to a heart that beat his father's blood.

"Connections?" Liadrin repeated. " _Oh_ , well, I—Belo'vir said he made a number of excellent points for your approval." Shifting her weight to the balls of her feet, she peered past him, into the darkness over his shoulder. "But I want to see all those awards for myself."

"He—I didn't bring them," he said hastily. "M-My—you said my father—he recommended me to the grand magister?"

"What?" She gave her head a quick shake. "No, the prince. What'd you do with them, then? Just left them in some dumpster in Dalaran?"

Rommath's smile stiffened like a fairly fresh corpse. "The prince?"

"Wha—no, the plaques—"

"That prince spoke to Grand Magister Salonar?"

Liadrin crinkled her nose in a frown. "Oh, yeah. Seemed to think quite highly of you," she told him. "But y'know, I'm hearing this all secondhand, so I don't have all the details. Vandellor said he approached Belo'vir with a thoroughly decorated portfolio and made a case for your approval—he was very adamant, Belo'vir told me he thought the prince was making a case for  _himself_. Till he dropped your name, anyway—recognized it from—are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he said. Parched words forced from shuddering lungs—not so convincing.

"You look a little pale," she observed.

As if he wasn't aware.

"I don't—I don't know why he'd do that," Rommath breathed. "I don't—it makes sense, I suppose, the grand magister's notes were much neater, but I didn't—I thought—why would he do a thing like that?"

Liadrin pursed her lips, looking reasonably perplexed. "I'm going to need you to slow down."

"I just—I didn't know," was his best explanation, or at least it seemed like one in his head. "About the prince, that is. I just thought the grand magister—"

— _was impressed with me_.

The words sounded foolish even on the opposite side of his ears.

"Hey…" Liadrin's voice was soft, and her hands were softer, smooth when they squeezed at his fingers—reassuring. "Hey, none of that—look, look at me—I don't know much about magic, but I do know Belo'vir. Quite well, as a matter of fact, so believe me when I tell you that he's an exceptionally shrewd man. He'd never have picked you if you didn't meet—nay, exceed—his qualifications. Royal recommendations or no. Understand?"

Rommath smiled wanly—it was a valiant attempt on her part—but his stomach still sat in his gut like a stone.

Kael sent him away.

So much for stained glass. Or senseless drunken toasts. Or late nights, just them—the prince and his constant companion, his closest confidant—and whispered confessions from the cold, clammy floor, when Kael's breaths came long and even and heavy with the smell of liquor.

Rommath wasn't fooling anyone, no, but he'd still wound up playing the fool.

"I really ought to get back to dinner, though," Liadrin was saying. A quick exit to an uncomfortable situation. "Vandellor's probably wondering where I've gotten off to, and I guess he does that enough back at the temple. Ought to give the old man a break."

One last squeeze, and she was stepping back, retreating.

Rommath didn't blame her. He felt like a little much, right then.

"Am I dismissed?" she asked, pricking a brow.

His response was a distant, disembodied nod.

"Thank you, milord." She dipped her head in a curtsy of sorts, smiling when she straightened up. "I'll see you around, yeah? Enjoy the food."

Rommath always did as he was told, but just once, he didn't. No matter how he tried, he couldn't seem to work up an appetite.


	11. -IX-

_-IX-_

Silverleaf smelled the same as he remembered—cool and fresh, like a breath drawn straight from a late night's breeze.

Doubly so if one happened to catch a whiff on a late night, even if the air was dead still and still sizzling with the faintest trace of arcane; triply so if one happened to be seated in a somewhat-squashed silverleaf shrub, sniffling as the shock set in.

Rommath didn't remember the impact—there was a hole in his memory like the one he'd poked in the glass of his mother's greenhouse on his way down from the third story—and he didn't remember the snap when his legs buckled against the soil, but he supposed it couldn't have sounded all that different from his brother.

He remembered his mother, though, with her nightgown aglow in the moonlight, bits of broken glass scattered about bare feet—and she looked like an angel with his father at her side, hair as dark as shadow and thoroughly tangled by what might've otherwise been a good night's rest.

And he remembered how his father's voice hitched every time he'd asked what the hell he'd been thinking, foolish boy.

He'd been thinking that if he learned a little levitation, maybe he could turn his nightmares back into dreams—dreams of the wind in his hair, dreams of flying instead of falling, dreams like normal little boys dreamt.

Well, he'd felt the wind in his hair—and stinging his eyes, and filling his lungs till they wanted to burst, like balloons, except they didn't carry him skyward over the treetops, floating on the briny sea breeze—he just  _fell_ —

And now when he smelled silverleaf, he ached.

He was aching now.

The Southern Sanctuary looked exactly as he remembered—gold and gleaming in the sunlight, lined with soft hues of peacebloom and mageroyal—and so did she.

Gloved and green-kneed, with her hair tossed haphazardly over one shoulder as she worked the soil, armed with just a spade, a pail of water, and a hat to keep the sun off her skin.

Elenora didn't look up when Rommath's shadow brushed against her periphery, but he could see the way her lips twitched in the wind-rippled surface of the water beside her. That hadn't changed either.

"More dizzy spells?" she asked, tugging at a stubborn weed.

Rommath had spent the better half of his day searching for something to say when he saw her—a worthy greeting, after nearly a decade of silence—but one whiff of that silverleaf scent and he was stunned silent. Couldn't even muster up a "no" for her, because he wasn't feeling dizzy at all, really, even if his world was spinning.

The best he could do was wide eyes, gray-green and barely blinking—same as always.

He could tell she recognized them when she bolted upright, whirling around to give him a lengthy gaze of her own.

His mother looked at him like he was a myth, a rumor made flesh, a ghost from some life long-departed—had to tug the gloves off her trembling fingers so she could reach for his robes, just to prove he was real. The way she yanked her hand back, it looked like she'd expected it to pass right through him.

"I'm sorry I never wrote you back," he breathed.

Elenora was on her feet before her spade hit the soil, but only for the tiniest fraction of a moment—the time it took for her to fling her arms around his neck and him to catch her before she could send them both sprawling.

She used to tell him that sometimes forgiveness needn't be spoken; the way she smiled when she sobbed into his shoulder made him think this must've been one of those times.

"I-I—" he stuttered, struggling for air. "I thought—I was afraid—Father—"

" _Shh_." It was little more than a rush of warmth against his collar, but it still seemed the most soothing sound to ever reach his ears. "Merciful Light, you've gotten so tall…"

But she was still the same, matched every memory that had survived within his mind. Still smelled of the silverleaf stems she stirred into her tea, and she still lived in the garden, judging by those threadbare gloves she clutched in her fist. Still smiled the same—bright and blissful, like she'd never been burned. Still hugged him the way she always had, like she'd never been pushed away.

Wholeheartedly happy, like she'd never seen her heart dashed to pieces. Like she could just pick up the broken bits in one hand and pick up right where they'd left off the night she'd gone— _Light_ , he'd missed her more than he'd known.

She'd stepped back when his shoulders started to shake—he wasn't much of a lifter, and still struggled with levitation all these years later—and smoothed out her robes with the softest "sorry," smothered in a sheepskin glove.

"I heard you'd made your way back to Silvermoon," she breathed, like she'd forgotten how till this very moment. "But I—I didn't know how long, and I—Light, I didn't think you'd come—I didn't...I didn't think I'd ever see you again…" She didn't smear away the tears when they gathered on her lashes, content to let them flow freely, unhindered—right down to her chin. "Nonsense—forgive my blathering. How are you? How's your father?"

Rommath tensed. Always a pair, the two of them. Like one couldn't be mentioned without the other. He was learning quickly what family meant here in Quel'Thalas.

Well, he'd written the High Minister of Arcane Magic on his first night back in Silvermoon, during a moment of half-conscious weakness, and was surprised to find a reply sitting on his desk not two weeks following. A bit late, but Rommath was no less elated to spot his father's seal amongst a couple dozen unopened envelopes addressed from Kael. Hadn't even bothered with the letter opener, in all his haste—he didn't trust his trembling hands with the blade, opting to tear it open like an overexcited oaf—

—to find two lines tattooed on parchment in Secretary Sunspinner's tight scrawl:

"Congratulations on making yourself into the Convocation's newest footstool, Archmage Rommath, Aide to the Grand Magister. Find a way to drop the "Aide to the" bit and you might yet make something of yourself.

—Lord Edienor Falor'dore, High Minister of Arcane Magic

Rommath had never set fire to anything so fast in his life.

But he couldn't say that to his mother, not when she was clinging to his sleeves just to keep herself upright, still shaking with sheer bliss. So he simply shrugged instead. "Haven't seen him."

His answer did nothing to dampen her spirits. "You look just like him, you know." She straightened his robes by the shoulders, the way she used to before the High Minister headed out to work, smoothing back his hair just the same. "Always have."

Rommath heard those words more often than he might've preferred, but this was the first time they'd been backed by a smile.

"I've got a picture of you," she said. "Just, ah...it's only a sketch—friend of mine saw it on a flyer when he was visiting Dalaran with his family, a nomination for some certificate or another—but the similarities show even better in person."

Rommath shifted his gaze, awkwardly admiring a silken peacebloom petal between his thumb and forefinger. "So I've heard."

"Those were your favorite when you were little," she told him. "You'd hold them up to your nose while you read, and then stick them in your hair when you thought I wasn't looking." She tucked a loose lock behind his ear, the subtlest shade of familiarity at her fingertips. "Always made me smile—the serious boy you were, with that frown of yours. Should've seen the way you'd scrunch up your face when they wouldn't stay."

A hint of mirth crossed his features. "I don't remember that," he admitted.

"Course not," she said absently. "Couldn't have been more than five or six." She smiled as she returned to the earth on her knees, undeterred by the dirt and the worms. "Want to help?"

Rommath wrinkled his nose, lips twitching in a frown that he was doing his damnedest to turn into a polite smile.

"You're not too different than I recall," she said with a smile. "Never cared for the gardens—you said the greenhouse felt 'sweaty.'"

Lady Falor'dore's greenhouse was a jungle, teeming with flora and every bit as humid as the rainforests of Stranglethorn—according to Oroveth's adventure books, anyhow.

He used to prowl through the plants, patrolling the aisles with a walking stick in one hand and a field journal in the other—a gift for his thirteenth birthday, meant to make his "expeditions" seem a little more real.

He'd forgotten it the day they climbed the cliffs—complained the entire way there that the authenticity was simply  _ruined_. Till the trolls showed up, leastways, and knocked some "authenticity" into their adventure when they knocked him right off his feet and over the cliff's edge with one easy blow and he'd hit the ground so hard it sounded like his lungs got knocked right out of his chest, but either way, he quit complaining.

Dead silent when they pulled him apart—

 _Stop_.

"—but you'd whine if I didn't bring you a flower every so often," his mother went on. "Like you were worried I'd forget about you—as if I could—but that's enough of that. Why don't you have a seat, love? Your joints still bother you?"

He picked a spot in the sun, a pillowy patch of grass where he could lean back with his legs outstretched. "If I spend too much time on my feet," he admitted. "Or the weather gets nasty. Can't say I'll miss the blizzards."

"Blizzards?" She blinked at him, taken aback. "With real snow? They have those in Dalaran?"

Rommath nodded as he plucked at a dandelion, pinching the pollen between his idle fingers. "The lake," he explained. "Strong winds, warm water, I don't know—always makes for a hell of a snowstorm."

"Was it lovely?" she asked. "It always looks stunning, in the books."

He shrugged his reply. "Wasn't much a fan, myself. Never seemed to keep me out of the cold, though."

"Bet that noble blood of yours rises to a boil if you don't go stand in the snow out of sheer stubbornness, hm?" she asked with a smile. "Least that's what all your father's tales would have me believe."

"Something like that," he said with a smile.

More like "snow was the most wonderful thing that had ever existed," and while frankly, Rommath had to disagree, he usually preferred to follow along and fuss awkwardly with all his extra layers while the prince packed snowballs that would inevitably end up scattered in Rommath's hair. He'd learned quite quickly that it was in his best interest not to speak up, lest Kael present him with an argument, ever the same: "Well then, what do you suppose  _is_ , O Wise One?"

Never an easy question for him to answer.

Well, not aloud, anyhow.

"Never cared for the outdoors, did you?" she continued, picking through the soil again.

He shrugged a shoulder, easing himself back to bear his weight on his elbows. "Still don't."

"Suppose you wouldn't," said the priestess. "The sun was never kind to you. Swear you burned the second you stepped out of the shade. "

Maybe the sky was simply jealous; he worshipped a different sun.

Even now, halfway below the horizon, its bitter heat beat on, glaring off the golden spires of the sanctuary; he could feel it on his shoulders, through the sheer silk of his sleeves—on his face, in the sweat that clung to his hairline.

"Guess I always liked flowers," he said, offering her a broken-stemmed dandelion. "Reminded me of you."

"That's awfully sweet…" Her gaze glistened when she glanced at the blossom, bright like her grin. "You've always been sweet too, haven't you?"

Rommath stared at his feet, a bashful boy once more. If he had to wager a guess, he'd say that blush of his looked just the same as it had a decade ago.

_Eleven years, two months, and fourteen days._

He hadn't made a sound when he watched her go, but he'd wanted to scream, and not just because the High Minister's grip on his shoulder was more grave than grieving.

_All that I do, I do for you, my son. Are you listening, Rommath? Do you understand me? No matter—one day you will._

"Rommath?"

He blinked her back into focus, staring at her the same way he'd stared out the window when she disappeared into the darkness on a long November night.

Elenora sent him a sidelong smile as she switched her attention back to a slender stalk of mageroyal. "You listening, love?"

"What?"

"Said you looked a little flushed," she told him. "Would you like a drink?"

Rommath shook his head and swallowed; idle fingers fumbled with the strip of satin on his wrist as he worked it free to tie back his hair.

"You sure? Sun's showing no mercy today. Could find you some shade, if you're feeling faint." She turned her smile into a sly smirk. "Or a parasol."

"I'm all right," he insisted, tucking a stray strand behind his ear. "I've suffered sunburns all my life. Suppose—"

"Merciful Light, are those...?" she interrupted. "I thought I smelled sandalwood!"

"What?" He tracked her slit-eyed stare to the scented beads tied tight to his neck. "Oh. A gift from the—my—old friend," Rommath explained. "Brought them back as a souvenir from a summer in Silvermoon."

"You sure he wasn't making fun of you, sweetheart?"

Rommath frowned. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, I don't know," she said, shrugging helplessly. "Can't help but recall how the bigger boys used to tease you, and I can't help but notice, ah—that design's meant for an infant, probably one with a nasty case of separation anxiety, see, sandalwood is said to reduce stress…"

He didn't want to imagine what he might've looked like if he ever took them off.

"They're expensive, though," she admitted. "A bit of a treasure, around here. Makes a nice gift anyhow. I'm sure your friend was very fond of you."

"Suppose," said Rommath, his smile gone sour. "He told me that he hoped they'd always make me think of home, because I never—" They just made him think of Kael, in truth, but he thought it was kind of the same. "—I never...I should've visited you…"

Her hands were busy, but a sweet smile dismissed his comment in their stead. "No reason to dwell on it. You're here now." A flicker of fear crossed her features. "It's not your heart, is it?"

"My heart?" he echoed. "No, I don't think—well, nothing of...that…nature—er—"

"Of what nature, then?" she asked, sitting back to see him better.

Rommath pinched his lips tight together. "Ah. I wish I hadn't said that."

"Is it a girl?"

"No."

"You promise?"

"Absolutely."

"Well…" Uncertainty tugged at her brow. "Suppose I wouldn't blame you if you didn't want relationship advice from me…"

"You're the best I've got," he told her.

Till he felt comfortable discussing such personal affairs with the grand magister, which Salonar had spent a month assuring him that he would, Rommath's only alternative was...Telestra. And the mere thought made him shiver worse than any blizzard ever would.

"Light bless us both, then." Elenora laughed, but not the way she used to; this one was more hollow than humorous. "I don't know what I could possibly tell you. I've only loved one man, far as I know, and that didn't turn out so well, did it?"

He let out a sigh, short and succinct, as he smoothed the creases of a frown out of his forehead. "Yeah, ah—me too."

As far back as he could remember. Maybe he was doomed from the start.

But it must not have shown, for his mother was grinning, gloved hands reaching for his own so she could trace his knucklebones as they talked. "I want to know everything."

Rommath blinked at her, tense and taken aback—but he was certain she could sense that in the tension in his tendons, the way his fingers twitched beneath her touch.

"Older or younger?" she prompted.

"Older," he answered dutifully. "Two years, almost."

"Taller or shorter?" the priestess pressed.

"Got a couple of inches on me."

"Must have some magnificent breeding," she chattered on. "That's what your father would say."

They had no idea.

"Is he beautiful?"

Rommath averted his gaze, watching her fingers work abstract patterns across scar tissue.

"He is, isn't he?" she asked, squeezing at his hand.

"Quite," he admitted.

She grinned. "Is he sweet?"

"When he wants to be."

"He sounds like a delight," said Elenora. "Doesn't he have a name?"

He scratched at his brow with the free hand, hesitant. "I...don't think I should say."

"Are you being coy, dear?" she teased. "I'm sure I wouldn't know him."

He winced at her words—sportive, but no less accurate. "He's very popular."

"Oh," she said, content with his answer. "Back in Dalaran?"

"Well, ah…" Yes, Kael was in Dalaran, and he'd never hated those words like he did now. "Yeah, in Dalaran."

"Have you known each other long then?" she asked.

Rommath shrugged. "'Bout as long as I can remember."

"And these...feelings…?" she went on. "Is that something new, or have those been around for a while?"

"...about as long as I can remember," he admitted.

Elenora tilted her head, curious, wearing a frown she must've passed on to her son.

"I know it doesn't make sense," he blurted. "I know eight-year-olds don't fall in love. I know if anyone had asked me then, I'd have said he was my best—my dearest—my  _closest_  friend, and I'd have asked nothing more of him, but I…" His hand clenched hers, creasing the sheepskin in his clutch. "I can't recall a time when I wanted anyone else."

"Well, I don't suppose it's meant to make sense," she said with a smirk. "It's not a matter of logic, else there'd be a lot more books on the subject—and a lot more magi with healthy relationships."

If that comment was meant for his father, Rommath hoped he was far, far away. And deaf. For both their sakes.

"Well, I wasn't certain till I turned thirteen." His lips twitched in a distinctly "Rommath" smile. "I decided so after a morning spent sprawled on the docks down by Lordamere Lake, after I learned from the son of a sea dog that humans have better ears than we give them credit for, and sometimes those ears belong to someone with a temper like dry tinder and fists like sledgehammers."

And left Rommath in rubble, they did. He still had the pink scar under his chin to commemorate the occasion.

"But my, ah, best-dearest-closest friend was furious when he found out." His brows drew together the way they always did when he was reminiscing. "And he pushed the sailor's son right through a portal that dropped him over the middle of Lordamere. Guess that won me over."

She stayed silent for a few seconds, considering this. "Since you were thirteen?" she asked, finally. "You don't think he ought to have...figured it out by now?"

Light, but Kael had. He'd probably always known. He knew everything when it came to Rommath—knew him inside and out.

"I think he's...under no delusions," he said slowly. "I think he just doesn't know what to do about it."

Or he hadn't, leastways, till the grand magister decided he needed an aide around the office.

There was no mistaking the sympathy in Elenora's smile. "That what you're looking for help with, then?"

Rommath gave his head a curt shake.

She frowned. "What then?"

" _Stopping_."

Elenora sat up, startled straight. "Why would you want to do a thing like that?"

He yanked his hand free to pluck at the grass—vigorously, violently, till he reached a stalk of dandelion, which he picked with a soft  _pop_  of the milky stem.

" _Rommath_."

She spoke his name sweet as ever, like a hand in his hair—she used to braid it back for him when he cried, and he cried often.

"Because it's  _pointless_ ," he hissed, spinning the stalk between his thumb and forefinger.

Didn't feel pointless, though; it ached like a spear of ice through his heart, very pointed indeed.

"Then you're in the wrong place." The priestess gave him a smile so taut that her lips went pale, contrasting dramatically with the crooked scar bisecting the bottom one. "Far as I know, love's not something you can stop, not with will, or distance, or physical force."

He narrowed his eyes, something like a scowl, but when spoke, his voice was soft. "Did it need stitching?"

"What?" she asked, hiding the blemish behind her hand and a thin veil of willful ignorance. "I—I don't know what you mean."

"Didn't they ask what happened?" he asked. " _Someone_  had to be curious. At the very least, whoever sewed your lip back together."

"I did it myself," she murmured. "Only seven stitches. Three on the inside, four on the outside."

Rommath had no words for that, just an involuntary spasm of his fingers that spelled death for his poor dandelion—anger, the sort he rarely knew.

"Be gentle, sweet boy," she said, soft like her touch when she worked the flower free from his grip. "You can't let others suffer for your stresses."

Still spoke in proverbs, it seemed.

"Have you ever tried telling  _him_?" Even seated in the grass, Rommath could see his father's house over the treetops, stark spires dark against the evening sky.

Her broken lip trembled, but her voice was clear as ever—built on faith. "He'll listen, eventually. One of these days."

"You can't possibly still—" He shook his head as coherent speech slipped beyond his reach. "You don't—you still love him…?"

She was quiet for a moment, chewing at her lip—lost in thought. "Do you know how we met?" she asked, suddenly sweet again.

His father didn't talk about her. Rommath stopped asking him once he noticed the correlation between those questions and the number of nights the High Minister of Arcane Magic spent locked upstairs in self-exile, starving and bitter.

He shook his head.

"I was fifteen—a priestess in title, but it was still so new I always forgot it in my introductions," she told him, "and I was reading in bed, because I was a good girl—always have been—and he gave me the fright of my life when he slipped into the sanctuary through the back entrance. See, he was wearing this ragged tunic—he'd torn off a piece trying to bandage his arm, I remember, because I could see his belly. Which I find adorable, in retrospect, but at that moment, I was mostly just terrified, because he was tall and lean and deathly pale, looked like a walking corpse."

And here Rommath had thought that gods couldn't bleed. Maybe the High Minister was mortal after all.

"He wouldn't tell me what happened," Elenora said. "Matter of fact, he didn't say a word the whole time, save a 'thanks' once I'd finished. Said he had to get home. So he did—not like I could stop him."

For a moment, she kept quiet, humming softly to herself as she worked the soil with her spade.

"And then?" Rommath asked.

"Oh, well, I saw him again, of course." Her curls swung when she shrugged a shoulder. "Three times that month, much to my surprise. Twice under similar conditions, still a nameless stranger with bloody arms, but the last time it was his ear instead: three deliberate cuts, close to the base, right here." She tapped at a freckled ear for emphasis, just so he could see. "Deep ones, down to the cartilage."

His mother must've mended them well, because Rommath had never seen the scars. Or maybe that was the reason the High Minister never wore his hair tied back.

"And this time, when I asked what he'd gotten himself into, he'd said he didn't do this one," she continued. "Explained that he'd been dabbling in blood magic, and he wouldn't stop staring at those fading gouges down his arms—"

The words felt like cold steel pressed to his palm—never seemed as sharp as it looked, when it cut across scar tissue—and he flinched accordingly. But his mother had spent enough time among Thalassian nobles to know when she should look the other way.

"—a-and I guess his father had found out. Your grandfather didn't think kindly of it, I suppose. Took a letter opener to his ear to make sure no one forgot his stance on the matter." Her tongue flicked out from the corner of her mouth, nervous, with a split-second pause over the split in her lip. "And I didn't want him to go home, not after that, so I said I'd go grab the high priestess next door if he tried to leave. I was bluffing, of course, but it did the trick. Should've seen how he blushed when I offered him my bed. He slept on the floor instead—was gone by dawn. Left me with a letter, though—an apology, no signature."

"Did you ever plan to ask his name?" Rommath suggested.

"Rommath, dear," she said with a smirk, "I don't mean to be blunt, but you've loved the same boy for the better part of a decade and haven't thought to say a word. You're in no place to rush me."

When he smiled—a true smile, a genuine smile—he smiled like the sun, because he'd learned from a Sunstrider.

"Summer passed with no sight of him." She shrugged idly. "Most of autumn too, for that matter. And then his brother left him on my doorstep one night in November, shivering and soaked, seaweed in his hair, with little more than a 'stay here, Edie, I've got to go deal with Father,' and a pinky promise that he'd be back to check on him in the morning."

Her smile froze as her stare lost its luster and she receded from reality in a manner Rommath found all too familiar. Perhaps it was genetic. But he didn't suppose she was thinking of any princes.

"Mother?" he said softly.

A few quick blinks and she was back in the present. "Apologies," she murmured. "Where was I? Ah—evidently they'd been looking for me for hours, because your father was being difficult—wouldn't let anyone touch him, because he wanted 'the pretty-haired one.'" She shook her head, smiling all the while. "I shouldn't laugh—he had a terrible concussion, threw himself off the cliffs by his home on the basis that his brother had dared him when he was eight, guess he wasn't always as smart as he is now—but you should've heard the things he said." The priestess dropped her voice as low as she could, imitating Lord Falor'dore's baritone: "'My brother calls me Edie, but I hate it, and I hate him, but I guess you can, you're beautiful. My mouth tastes like the ocean.'"

Her laugh was lighthearted, just like the rest of her. Made him grin, put him at ease.

"I sat him on my bed and draped some blankets over his shoulders," she said, smiling fondly at the memory. "And he didn't protest, this time—so I knelt on the ground beside him and kept him talking, couldn't let him fall asleep, you know. He went on and on about his family, and his friend (just the one), and his house, and his studies—offered to show me a spell, but I suggested he wait till his head was feeling a little better, said he could show me next time. So he frowned for about five minutes, and then told me he hoped there'd be a next time, even if he had to dive off another cliff—or even ten—because I was the only sweet person he'd ever known."

Rommath didn't remember much of his grandfather or his uncle, but he remembered enough to believe that was true.

"I don't know if that's still the case," said Elenora with a sigh, "but it must've been at the time. You can't lie with a concussion."

He stared on, silent as she sifted through the soil.

"You don't get it."

Rommath frowned. "Get what?"

"Listen, love," she told him. "If anyone had to place a bet, I'm sure they'd say he doesn't give a damn about me—or anything else for that matter. He does come off rather cold, I know that just as well as anyone."

She was as well-accustomed to snowstorms as anyone else in their family chronicle.

"He doesn't always remember to say 'I love you too,' and sometimes he doesn't talk for days, but he's never forgotten my birthday, and he lets me sleep on top of him even when it's too hot, and I know he dreams of me, because he talks in his sleep. Point is, no one shows their affection the same way. If they want to be with you, they'll be with you. Put your faith in action, not thought, sweet boy. Words to live by." Her smile sharpened itself into a sly smirk. "And if that doesn't work, a blow to the head might do the trick."

He smothered a scowl in his fist, but his eyes narrowed all the same. "Suppose that's what Father was trying to accomplish when he tried to knock your teeth in?"

"There are worse ways to show it," she said stiffly. "Least the temple isn't so far away. I can still see his house, on a clear day."

He looked away. "Suppose he could've exiled you to Silvermoon."

"I don't know what you mean," said his mother.

"I didn't have as much to do with my recent promotions as I thought," he said with a shrug. "Didn't have much to do with it at all, I guess."

"If I were to take a stab at it," she murmured, "I'd guess it was that unnamed lover of yours."

She might've been a priestess, but she stabbed like a swordsman.

Rommath nodded, an awkward motion that would've made rigor mortis look loose.

"Why do you say it like it's some great insult?" His mother had eyes like amber crystallized in the afternoon air, and they glinted brightly in the shade cast by her hat—curiosity, not condescension. "Was he cruel?"

"I—I think it's a nice gesture," Rommath told her. "I do. Or I keep telling myself so. But I just...he's just...so far…"

"You don't think he could've taken the job for himself, if it was distance he sought?" she suggested.

Rommath chewed at the inside of his cheek. "Think that's a bit below his pay grade."

"Oh my." Elenora's eyebrows vanished beneath the brim of her hat. "If that's below his pay grade, he could've shipped you a lot farther than Silvermoon."

His lips pulled themselves into a smirk, entirely involuntary. "Do you ever get tired of giving people the benefit of the doubt?"

"It's not very exhausting, love," she said with a smile.

Rommath wasn't so sure. "You don't get hurt, with your guard down all the time?"

Her lips parted to offer a reply, but the voice he heard was not his mother's silk-soft singsong.

It belonged to a fair-haired acolyte beneath the arching entry, clinging to a column as she called for the priestess: "You get lost in your thoughts again, Elenora? Your students are bound to wonder where you've gotten off to!"

"Light, is it dusk already?" she asked. "Just a moment!"

Shucking off her gardening gloves, she fished a vial of antiseptic from her pocket and doused her hands in the liquid. The smell stung his eyes, but the priestess didn't seem bothered in the least.

"I'm good at healing," she told him, speaking the words like a secret.

Rommath gave her a dour smile. He ached for the woman, but at least that much was true.

Didn't change the fact that she still looked like he'd backhanded her when he stood and smoothed out his robes, and when she spoke, her voice was a whimper: "Won't you stay, Rommath? It's only an hour-long class—you...you're welcome to come along, if you're not squeamish—we're working with cadavers today, so I hope you had a light lunch...but...but we could have dinner after, if you want! We could... _please_."

"I wasn't going to leave—" The air rushed out of his lungs when she pulled him close, arms twined tight around his waist. "Was just going to move to the bench. Looks comfortable enough—for an hour, leastways."

It didn't look terribly comfortable, in truth, but it was better than the grass. And dirt. And bugs.

"Go on." He breathed the words into her hair—it smelled the same as it had when she used to hold him on her hip. "I'll be here when you're done."

"Be safe, sweet boy," she told him.

The last words she'd said before she'd left him. And then she was gone.

Rommath found the bench more comfortable than he'd expected, nestled amid a myriad of velvet flowers and all aflutter with fireflies blinking in the steadily approaching darkness.

Rommath found the bench even more comfortable once he'd started working with the intricacies of arcane timebending—unstable spells, rooted in theory, and if these didn't make them uncomfortable enough, they were all credited to the High Minister of Arcane Magic, who had dedicated the last decade of his existence to their research.

But he could think of no better way to pass the time.

* * *

 

Now, either the timebending spells had worked, or time passed slower in the Land of Eternal Springtime, because each passing second seemed to last an hour, as sitting became sprawling and sprawling began the rapid descent toward snoozing, which might've even progressed to slumbering had he not been interrupted by a familiar voice:

" _Rom_."

For a split-second, his heart stood still.

"Why aren't you writing me back?"

Rommath was on his feet so fast his head spun, but then, that was just his conditioned response to the sight of Kael'thas Sunstrider. Especially when the prince stood tall in his royal regalia, with that white-gold crown atop his brow—regal.

"Watch out," Kael added, almost as an afterthought. "You're going to hurt yourself."

He swayed where he stood, breathless. "H-How did you find me?"

"Irrelevant," Kael told him. "Why're you ignoring my letters?"

Rommath's tongue stuck to his teeth, couldn't even stutter out an excuse to soothe the prince's temper.

"You're upset with me."

"No."

"You know about the job."

Rommath took a step back.

"Who told you?" Kael asked, in a voice that should've belonged to a viper. "Was it the girl?"

Rommath winced. "Which girl?"

"Cy—Cyres?" He battered the air with a hand, a gesture that looked more frightening than dismissive, all things considered. "Cyler or whatever."

"Cyrel," Rommath told him.

Kael's shoulders shook as he sucked in a breath—enough oxygen to feed a firestorm, and that's exactly what it did. In the form of many diverse swears, limited by neither language barrier nor common decency, and punctuated by an ever-so-poignant " _bitch_."

"Calm down, please," Rommath whispered. "Someone's going to think there's trouble."

"There  _is_  trouble."

"Danger," Rommath clarified.

"There  _is_  danger," Kael insisted. "It's going to be a social bloodbath. I'll fucking ruin her—you know I will—"

" _Kael'thas_."

"What?"

"She didn't—" He swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut like he expected the prince to take a swing at him. "No one told me anything. I figured it out on my own."

He'd never lied to Kael before. He hoped it was convincing.

"Bullshit," Kael snapped. "I told Belo'vir not to say a word to you—I'm going to—I'd like to light something on fire. Do you want to light something on fire?"

He didn't, but he'd have said yes if it meant he could keep Kael close. So he ignored the question. "Please keep your voice down," he begged. "It doesn't matter—"

"It does!"

The words were explosive, left his ears ringing and his lungs empty.

"You weren't supposed to know." Kae'ls chest caved as he exhaled a sigh. "I knew you'd be pissed if you found out I got you the position—hell, I practically had the damned thing created for you—though I'll have you know that everyone else was  _clamoring_ for my approval once word got out that I was making recommendations to the grand magister—"

"But I was proud of myself," Rommath told him.

It wasn't a common occurrence. Twenty years and the number still hung around the upper single digits.

"You should be!" the prince exclaimed. "You're fucking talented—everyone thinks so, except you!"

 _Not everyone_.

"You don't understand." The words were hushed, but they broke on their way past Rommath's lips anyhow. "You don't—I thought I'd made something of myself, only to find out that it was nothing more than what you'd made me. I felt like I was someone. Now I feel like a—a disappointment."

The prince snapped his mouth shut so quickly Rommath could hear his teeth click. "And why do you suppose I don't know how that feels?"

"Because—"  _You're the most wonderful thing that ever existed. You're my fresh snow on the streets after a frigid winter night_. "—everyone thinks you're flawless. Perfection incarnate."

Kael snorted, more like a scoff and just as amused. "Is that what they say?"

The prince stood intoxicatingly close—so close that everything else felt beyond reach, irrelevant, so close that Rommath didn't care anyhow. He couldn't  _think_  this close to Kael, needed space, needed to step back, just—

The prince caught him quickly by the tunic. "Don't move—don't flinch. I'm calm. I'm calm, I promise."

Kael paused to pick at a thread in the embroidery along Rommath's shoulder, idle hands working their way up to his collar.

"Father had to pay off some prostitute today," he confessed, eerily sober. "Said she was carrying my bastard. Fucking liar—I'd never seen her in my life, and I don't have to pay for sex, and I haven't even—well, I told Father it wasn't true, but my reputation doesn't exactly precede me, from what I understand.  _He_  says the rumors are...I don't know—reprehensible? Reviling? One of those."

His frustration evaporated the moment Kael's fingertips met his throat; he wasn't going anywhere—he was going to stay within arm's reach forever, if it meant there was a chance that the prince would keep his hand there. They both knew this.

"I know I'm not flawless," Kael breathed, "because Father listed out all my flaws in front of my brothers, the grand magister, and half the Convocation. Took him forty-five minutes to stop coming up with new additions, and I'm not convinced he didn't just end it because he was out of breath."

Rommath didn't know what to say.

Well, he knew what he wanted to say, but "don't stop touching me" didn't seem like an appropriate reply. Now less than ever.

"But now that I think of it, I'm pretty sure he listed "drunkard" twice," Kael said with a wan smile. "And I think  _harlot_  is a little extreme, personally. Don't you?"

The prince didn't wait for a reply, which was good, because the way he was tracing his fingers up Rommath's arteries somehow cleared out his whole vocabulary in four separate languages.

"I tried to tell him so, but he wasn't in much of a mood to listen. Not like Eldin was helping—kept trying to add to the list, that stupid bastard."

Rommath's heart pounded hard in reply—a better response than anything he could've said, surely.

"But I suppose it's not so bad," Kael told him. "I mean, I think the worst he can do is disown me—and I suppose then he couldn't keep me chained to the city—but till that happens, at least I've got you, hm?"

He blinked in reply, each slower than the last, until he could hardly keep them open. "What?"

The prince seemed to derive immense pleasure from Rommath's struggle. "I'm confined to Quel'Thalas for 'royal preening,'" he said with a smirk. "By my father's command. Think it's a load of shit—I'm a grown man—but I don't suppose that exempts me from official royal decrees. Prince or no."

Rommath cleared his throat. "What?" he croaked. His efforts did not show. "Here? What about Dalaran? The Council?"

"They've been understanding, thus far, though I don't assume they know the whole story." Kael shrugged nonchalantly, casually hollow. "Long as I return for the monthly meetings, I don't suppose they'll even notice my absence. Even that's a stretch, really—Kel'Thuzad only shows up when it suits him, and no one thinks anything of it."

"Here?" he repeated, bracing himself for the answer to change. "In Quel'Thalas?"

"Not like I wouldn't have spent all my time back here anyhow," he teased. "Got to make sure you're taking care of yourself."

Rommath wasn't sure whether he wanted to shake with laughter or frustration. So he just shook his head. "That's not your job," he said numbly.

"Like hell it's not," Kael said with a scoff. "Someone has to."

"I can do it myself," he said hastily. "I—I can do things on my own, you know."  _No, he doesn't. No one does._  "I'm not helpless. I'm going to be someone, some day. I'll make something of myself—something _, anything_ , just to say I did it on my own." He took a deep breath, pushing all his thoughts back into place, and sealed up the cracks in his composure with a sigh. "Why'd you get me the job?"

"Kept getting letters from my father," he told him, hitching a shoulder in a half-shrug. "Once a week, at first, and then every day. I ignored them, in the beginning—I was bitter, you know, those letters were the most interest he'd taken in me since my mother died. And then he sent a royal courier to catch me on my way to work—said I had a month to make arrangements for my return to Silvermoon. So I did."

"But—"

"Stop."

The hand that had inched its way up to the back of his neck made for a compelling argument; Rommath remained silent.

"I couldn't stand the thought of sitting on a throne here in Silvermoon with you back in Dalaran, abandoned and—and— _bleeding_ , fuck, Rom, why do you have to do that? Couldn't you use beast blood, or something less, I don't know, dangerous?"

It wasn't the same. He liked to do things for himself.

"You've got to—you just—"

The prince's free hand clenched itself into a fist, aimed at Rommath's chest, like he could beat the words right through his sternum and into his heart, but just one pulse-pounding second before he made contact, his fingers unfurled, and the fist became a gentle gesture. Tender as he traced the bones through Rommath's tunic—his ribs didn't show through his shirt like they had when he was little, but Kael knew where they were without looking.

"You're my fucking  _constant_." His voice was hoarse, nothing more than a whisper, but Rommath heard him just fine. "You're the only thing in my life that has always been, and will always be. Do you understand?"

Rommath understood perfectly. He just didn't know how to say so with Kael's fingers tangled in the feathery hairs along the nape of his neck. All he could do was try not to breathe, because every time he inhaled, his chest brushed against the prince's royal robes, and Rommath's heart felt like it was trying to break out of his ribcage to go find Kael's.

"It's not my job to look after you," he said—clumsy words, they stuck together like a cluster of caramels in the sun, and they sounded just as sweet. "It's not a job at all. Mostly just a reason to keep close, because I can't—I don't ever want to—I need you to—"

He paused with his chest pressed close and a few fingers following the curve of Rommath's hipbone—now, that could've been unintentional, and Rommath could've just been overly conscious, but that didn't seem likely because he barely felt conscious at all, what with the way Kael was panting against his lips like he'd just been gut-punched.

Warm, wet, and wavering—eyes fluttering, sides shuddering.

At that moment, he felt as though he were in the presence of a god. But when he tried to avert his eyes, reverent as ever, the prince caught him by the chin, leaning forward to rest his forehead against Rommath's, with nothing but the crown between them.

 _Merciful Light_.

"Kael—"

"No." When he spoke, their lips touched—no, brushed, but it was close enough to make Rommath's knees weak, or weaker. "I need you—"

"Good news and bad news, love," said a singsong voice coming around the corner. "The kitchen is closed for the evening, but if we wake up early, there'll be breakfast—oh my."

Kael twisted his fingers in Rommath's hair, so tight it made his neck ache. "Who's she?"

Rommath glanced at the redhead, who was too busy backing away with her hands over her eyes and stuttering apologies to make any introductions. "My mother."

"Mother?" Kael echoed, dropping his arms to his side as he found his charming smile. "Milady, it's an honor to meet you."

She stopped short, peering past her fingers. "I'm so sorry for...um, interrupting, really—I can go…"

"You're not interrupting," Rommath told her. "Kael just...stopped by to—he, um…"

The prince dipped his head in the bow he used to flash his crown, and though it worked better in the sunlight, far as Rommath knew, the gesture was not lost on the priestess, who stared wide-eyed when he retrieved her hand to press a kiss to her knuckles.

"Kael like Kael'thas?" she said with a gasp just short of hyperventilation. "Like Prince Kael'thas, or…?" Either her knees were ready to buckle or she was about to full-on prostrate herself before him. "Should...I bow?"

Kael sent Rommath a sidelong grin. "I can see the resemblance," he said. "Don't suppose that'll be necessary. Your son's a dear friend of mine, you know."

Elenora peered over the prince's shoulder, an attempt to make eye contact with her son. "Is this the one?"

" _Mother_ , please—"

"Oh!" she exclaimed, clutching a hand to her lips. "Forgive me. It's a secret, I guess."

" _Mother_ —"

"You're quite all right," the prince assured her, smiling sweetly. "He's just persnickety."

Rommath frowned. "Persnickety?"

"Oh, certainly," his mother agreed. "Always has been. Even before he could talk. Of course, he took his time about that—people asked me if he was a mute till he was two."

"People still ask if he's a mute," Kael told her.

"Not people," Rommath pointed out, "just you."

No one seemed to hear him anyhow.

"Rommath, I like him," Elenora whispered. "He's  _divine_."

He rolled his eyes—not like it spared him a glimpse at the prince's wry grin, though. "So I've heard."

"Prince Kael'thas," the priestess said, smiling in a way any upstanding, respectable priestess shouldn't, "how would you feel about breakfast?"

" _Mother_ —"

"Breakfast?" Kael clutched a hand to his chest, flattered. "Why, milady—I...I'd be  _honored_."

"Oh, good," said Elenora, nodding. "It's too late to travel anyway, you know."

"He can teleport," Rommath suggested.

His mother pursed her lips, pouting at him. "Be polite, sweet boy. He's our guest."

"Guest?"

"Sweet boy?"

"Yes!" she exclaimed, to one or both of them. "I can show you two to your room, hm?"

"Room?" The crease in Rommath's brow begged her to stop helping, but evidently, even years spent married to the High Minister of Arcane Magic hadn't taught her to speak fluent frown. "Just the one?"

"Oh, please," Kael said, wearing the smirk of Kael the boy, prince of pranks and mischief. "We shared a bed till I graduated my apprenticeship...and honestly, for a while after that…still do, from time to time."

"Do you, now?" she asked. "It'll be just like old times then—loads of fun! Come on!"

 _Eleven years, two months, and fourteen days_ , and it seemed his mother was doing her best to make up for all the embarrassing moments she'd missed in what was quickly becoming the longest minute of Rommath's life.

Maybe the timebending spells had worked.

And though the color in his cheeks made for a very compelling argument, he couldn't convince himself to feel all that humiliated as he followed her into the temple.

Loads of fun indeed.


	12. -X-

**TW: Blood magic and whatnot.**

* * *

_-X-_

"Stop smirking, Sunreaver," the grand magister told him. "Nothing happened."

Sunreaver scrunched up his nose like a seasoned skeptic. "Nothing?"

"Nothing," Rommath assured him.

Aethas stroked at a very imaginary beard, like he'd ever been able to grow more than that sliver of stubble along his chin that he'd sported all throughout his twenties. "And here I thought everyone who shared their sheets with the prince of Silvermoon spent the night flush with passion," he said, with a smirk that was quintessentially Sunreaver. "Or that was the word around Dalaran, if I recall."

The grand magister disguised his scowl as an excessively lengthy sip from his tea, in lieu of his usual high-collared robe. "Yes, well," he muttered, the words trapped in ceramic, "the only flush I saw that night was the hot burn of humiliation when Kael and my mother started swapping stories from my childhood."

That had gone on for far too long.

"And you're telling me that the prince didn't even  _try_  to undress you?" Aethas prodded. "For a better look at the flush, that is. You turn a lovely shade of red when you're embarrassed—" The young man leaned in for a better look of his own. "Yes, that's it. Quite patriotic, if I do say so myself."

"We slept in our clothes," said Rommath flatly.

Sunreaver's smile died a swift death. "You  _what_?"

The grand magister had begun to miss that moment when Sunreaver was staving off sobs—or something close, at the least. He'd been quieter then.

"That's absolutely absurd, Rommath—"

"— _Grand Magister_ —"

"—you didn't even undress? Why, that's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard, you know, and that's bearing in mind that I hear  _everything_  that comes out of my mouth, so—"

"—do you, though?"

"Of course I do," said Sunreaver with a scoff. " _Slept in your clothes_. Light, it's like you weren't even  _trying_  to bed him properly."

"I wasn't." The grand magister's glare would've gotten a shiver from a glacier. "Forgive me if I hadn't worked up the courage quite yet, but I—"

" _Yet_?" Aethas cut in. "Implying that you  _did_  undress at some point?"

Rommath's sigh sent ripples skittering across the surface of his tea. "Yes."

Sunreaver balked at him. "Well, what are you doing prattling on about all the nights you didn't, then?"

"We've still got a ways to go—"

"A  _ways_?" Aethas echoed.

The grand magister pricked a brow. "Would you like an exact date?"

"Light, no," he said quickly. "That sounds agonizing—just jump to the juicy bits."

Rommath's fingers tightened around his teacup as he drained the last of his dwindling patience. "You're going to miss out on quite a lot of rich, refined social struggling," he warned.

"I get it. You were a painfully awkward youth. Rest assured, you've made that much abundantly clear." Sunreaver shifted his weight forward so it rested entirely on the edge of the arm of the sofa where he'd seated himself, the epitome of eagerness. "Enough of that. I want to hear about the part where you wooed the prince."

"That's not exactly—"

"Rommath,  _please_. I don't handle suspense well."

He pursed his lips tightly together, strangling the words on their way out. " _Grand Magister_ ," he corrected.

* * *

His first breath from the forbidden room reeked of death.

Not death in the traditional sense, putrid and sickly sweet, no. Death like the top layer of the forest floor—with which Rommath had been well-acquainted during his childhood, a clumsy boy even before he'd gone and ruined his legs—death like dirt and detritus, death that grew the tallest trees, the greenest grass. Death that smelled distinctly of new life.

The second breath from that forbidden room was a sneeze, meek and muffled. Death was dusty.

Rommath excused himself quietly, to no one in particular, and let the door swing shut behind him, sealing himself in with the soot-dark silence and stale air.

Any respectable mage might've lit a flame, brought a bit of arcane to his fingertips to brighten his path—hell, even a flimsy frostfire spell would've done the job—but Rommath had, over the course of his years, developed this peculiar tendency to blunder on blindly wherever his directions led him. So when the sixth floor servant had sent him across the hall in search of a book on botany with a single key on an oversized ring, he'd set out without so much as a second to stall.

Least till his second step, anyhow, which happened to catch a tower of tomes stacked on the floor, buried beneath the darkness.

His luck.

They tumbled to the ground with haphazard rhythm, muted thuds that almost mirrored Rommath's clumsy attempt to keep himself upright—but inevitably, this ended much the same as every one of his encounters with the forest floor.

Regretting every choice he'd made that had brought him to this point, Rommath picked himself up off the floor with one last sneeze stifled in the crook of his elbow (and the subsequent wince that followed). Maybe some light would do him good.

He eased his way through the darkness, stepping carefully as the hands scanned the far wall for— _ah_ , the window wasn't quite so wide as the one in his room across the hall, but when he threw open the shutters, the whole room flickered alight.

Silvermoon's citizens had been advised to keep their windows shut and sealed till the fire festival had finished, but the grand magister didn't generally give much mind to guidelines. Nearly a week into July, everyone was used to smoke and incense; besides, if he were being honest, Rommath guessed he'd always been a bit fond of fire.

Didn't really realize till Belo'vir had pointed it out. Said he had all the markings of a magnificent fire mage—an excess of emotion that only existed in extremes and a quiet stubbornness about him that explained why he was still wasting his time with arcane magic. "And born on the hottest day of the year, no less!"

Much as he'd have liked to disagree, Rommath did tend to finish his work slower when the subject was centered around arcane...

Which is how he'd ended up in the padlocked room across the hall from his, crouched under a desk as he reached for a leather-bound journal, one of the many he'd knocked over on his way in. He needed a book on blood thinners.

Didn't matter when he'd been born—he bled arcane, like the rest of his bloodline, and he'd be damned if anyone told him his purpose lay elsewhere. If he needed to borrow a little of that noble blood, so be it. Still hated to think what his father might say, but—

"What are you doing?"

Rommath snapped out of his reverie with a start, sitting up so quickly he nearly knocked himself out on the underside of the desk on his way. "Morning, Liadrin," he said, wincing. "Didn't know you guys had spent the night."

The priestess didn't seem concerned with pleasantries at the present moment. "You shouldn't—" She coughed into her sleeve, scanning the room with wet lashes and watery eyes. "Who let you in here?"

He rubbed at the sore spot on the back of his head. "Needed a book. Chambermaid gave me the key."

And the loudest gasp he'd ever heard when he'd asked her if the grand magister had any books on blood thinners. Told him to check the room across the hall— _be quick about it, boy, and keep your lips sealed_ —with a tight smile of her own just to show him how it was done.

"To—in here?" Liadrin asked.

Rommath nodded, bending to reach the last tome, spine-up and splayed on the floor.

"Belo'vir doesn't like—" The redhead glanced nervously over her shoulder as she let the door close behind her. "He keeps the room locked up—doesn't come in here."

Rommath eyed the clutter—overgrown plants and about a thousand discarded alchemy supplies, for the most part. "I can see that." He laughed nervously, cut short by another sneeze. "Apologies."

"Cassir was quite fond of botany," she explained. "Belo'vir's boy—er, his sister's son, that is. But his mother went mad when he was pretty young, so he sort of fell from relative to relative, till he landed in Belo'vir's lap. Might as well have been his son, though. Took his name when he came of age—Belo'vir even drafted a new copy of his will to name the kid his heir apparent."

Rommath traced a thumb over the raised lettering along the cover's bottom border:  _C. Salonar_. "Must be a promising study," he noted, the only compliment he knew.

"Oh, certainly." Liadrin nodded. "A bizarre boy, but he was exceptional at his work. Got himself an apprentice when he was just seventeen, you know. Smart one, too. You'd probably know of him—Freywinn?—earned a lofty job under the royal alchemist after Cassir died."

He flinched at the word—and spoken so casually, at that.

Liadrin chewed at her lip as she hesitated. "On his nineteenth birthday, while we were all downstairs with our mouths full of raspberry tarts." She smoothed out her robes meticulously, as if to buy herself a moment of time; when she spoke again, her voice sounded hoarse. "Found him slouched over his desk with an anticoagulant in one hand and a letter opener in the other. I'd thought you were supposed to...I don't know, leave a note or something, I guess, but...he just scribbled a few words in the margin of his notes—' _I am not my mother_ '—and that's it."

Rommath wet his lips, waiting for them to form words, but they never did. He felt sick to his stomach—sick with sadness, sick with grief, sick with guilt as he tugged his sleeve lower.

"It's not something I share lightly," Liadrin added, suddenly terse. "But you've lived here a while, and I know for a fact Belo'vir has taken quite a liking to you. Don't want you going and asking him about it, that's all—he hates to speak of it, hates himself for it—so you'll keep quiet, yeah?"

"I won't—I—I wasn't...I wouldn't—" At this point, he figured he ought to just do as she said and fell stiffly silent.

"Good," said Liadrin. "He asked me to find you." She held the door open for him, a hint that Rommath didn't miss. "Wants to see you about some errand."

"The grand magister?" he asked, knees aching as he got to his feet. "Urgent?"

"Seemed important," she said with a shrug.

Rommath nodded—he'd find his book elsewhere. "Thanks."

Figuring his breath was wasted on awkward goodbyes, Rommath offered her half a wave instead, which transitioned seamlessly into the tail end of a short range teleportation spell that whisked him away to Salonar's second-floor study before she could chide him for his poor manners. (This skill had proven essential during his stay in Silvermoon.)

Belo'vir was standing with his back to the door, whistling off-key as he shelved a stack of books that had been scattered across his desk just last night.

"I-If the shelf needed reorganizing, I could've—you could've asked," Rommath told him, tugging at the hem of his sleeve.

He was overly aware of the taut new skin across his palm, a slim scar—small, in comparison.

He'd borrowed some blood for a couple complex runic enchantments; just a little, nothing messy, but Belo'vir had keen eyes, never missed much. Rommath had muttered some excuse— _was opening a package, the letter opener slipped_ —and shrugged his way past, leaving Belo'vir tight-lipped and pale like he'd been bleeding too.

But he'd been careful after that—kept the cuts confined beneath his tunic, where no one would see and pale or pity him, and he wouldn't have to explain.

"I ask plenty of you as it is," said Salonar, waving him off with a scoff. "Any luck proving Magister Falthrien's theory on...warped-lattice acceleration, was it?"

Rommath shook his head till Belo'vir turned to face him, dry-mouthed and silent.

Belo'vir Salonar was a breakneck researcher, seemed to move at lightspeed with relative ease, and Rommath was by all rights a dedicated student—Light, he was giving it everything he had—but he only had so much blood.

"No matter," he said with a shrug. "You're due for a break anyhow." There was something suspiciously sly about that smirk. "What do you think of a vacation down south?"

Rommath's brow twitched in a frown. "Well, I suppose that depends how far…"

"The coast," Belo'vir told him. "Just past the Elrendar."

Rommath tensed.

"I know you and your father aren't on the best terms," he said quickly. "I get it. I never saw eye to eye with mine. But the fact of the matter is—oh, come now, don't make that face. I'm not going to lecture you." The grand magister took a seat on the edge of his desk, pinching at the bridge of his nose as if to ward off the inevitable headache associated with the High Minister of Arcane Magic. "Look. I've contacted every available affiliated magi in Quel'Thalas, and every available affiliated magi in Quel'Thalas politely declined by ignoring my most ardent pleas."

He winced. "Did you, um...try contacting the ones researching abroad?" he asked hopefully.

"Rommath, please. No one's seen him at a meeting in months, hasn't sent out a report in  _years_ —or his damned taxes, for that matter—someone's got to go make sure his heart's still beating. I know he's difficult. Believe me,  _I know_. But odds are he'll be sweeter to his son than—"

"I'm not—" Rommath bit down on his tongue before he could say more, but he didn't think he could've gotten much farther than that anyhow.

The grand magister glanced at him. "Not…?"

"Not his son," he said weakly. Had to force the words out—they sounded every bit as bitter when they crossed his lips. "Only by blood and chance arrangement of facial features. I'll bring back his family chronicle, if you don't believe me—the last name is blacked out in ink."

"Do you mean…?" Salonar's stare was just shy of a scowl. "I—I've never known a dying man to disown his only heir."

"Disown? No, I—" Rommath blinked, backtracking. " _Dying_?"

"A-Ah, yes—oh dear—" Salonar stammered. "His heart's failing—I-I assumed you knew, everyone knows…"

"I didn't even know he had a heart."

"Yes, well, not a very efficient one, it would seem. Caused a bit of chaos a while back—couple years before you came, I believe. He'd challenged Magister Sunsworn to a duel—don't know what the damned fool expected, called him the 'head of a dead bloodline' or something, and your father's a proud man, you know—"

Yes, Rommath knew that much.

"I've heard pride can make your heart swell, but it can't pump blood and oxygen to your brain when your swollen heart tries to quit on you," Belo'vir said with a shrug. "He passed out right in the middle of the damned fight, and I couldn't tell you what spell he was working on when he fainted, but I do know it went a bit awry when he did. Nearly blew Sunsworn to bits. His whole house wanted the High Minister's head, but they quit fussing pretty quick after I had your father hand over a heap of gold for their "troubles." Don't think he really cared; he won and that's what mattered."

"Oh," was all he could think to say.

"I...I didn't mean to startle you," said Salonar. "I thought he would've said something to you."

There were many things Rommath thought his father would've said—he'd expected the man to make it known how his son had renounced his name and all its splendors, at the least—but his father didn't tell him things anymore.

That was his own fault, and he was fine with it.

Sort of.

"It's all right," Rommath told him. "We aren't close."

The words should've felt more honest, but no matter.

Salonar stayed silent for several seconds. "Don't hurry back, boy," he said after a moment—softly, like he couldn't quite convince himself he wanted to say anything at all. "You've got the rest of the weekend to yourself. You've earned it."

The words weren't exactly a weight off his chest, but it seemed to swell a little with the next breath—he could feel the sting in each crooked cut running across his ribcage, over his sides, down to his hips.

But he didn't care. He smiled anyhow.

"I'll leave right away," he breathed.

"Wait, ah—Rommath?"

He halted where he stood, a teleportation spell tingling at his fingertips. "Grand Magister?"

Salonar smoothed back a strand of silvery hair. "Your father—he, ah...he says it's genetic?"

Rommath nodded. Bad hearts ran in their blood, alongside arcane magic and arrogance—in all honesty, he should've seen it coming. "Sure, yeah. My uncle's heart stopped pretty soon into his thirties. Think my grandfather passed a bit early, too."

Belo'vir's expression was grim. "And you don't suppose that you...well…"

"Mother says I'd have noticed by now if there was anything wrong."

Her lowborn blood must've done him some good.  _Lucky boy_ , she'd told him. But he always seemed to forget it.

"Don't think the possibility ever really troubled me all that much anyway," he added, speaking softly. "Not like I'm here to change history. I just don't want to be forgotten. Suppose I've got a few people to carry my memory."

Salonar smiled, but it seemed to shake. "All right, lad," he murmured. "But if—ah, if you're ever feeling a little less optimistic, I—well, I'm no wise man or anything, but  _please_ —you just—you'd say something to me, wouldn't you?"

Rommath felt overly aware of the aching all along his sides. "Sure."

That green gaze of his had grown glassy, and when it turned from Rommath it looked every bit as brittle. "Good," he told him. "You're dismissed. Go gather your things."

Rommath grinned—but he didn't stick around long enough for Salonar to see; a twitch of his fingers took him back to his chambers in a burst of bright light.

He didn't have much to gather, far as 'things' were concerned—just one, in all honesty.

" _Kael_ ," he whispered from the safety of the doorway.

The prince slumbered on, with the sheets pulled up over his shoulders and his hair fanned out across his back.

It wasn't an uncommon sight, as of late.

As far as Anasterian was concerned, Kael couldn't leave the palace without his kingly command and a flock of royal guard at his flank. And as far as Anasterian was concerned, Kael didn't.

But the smallest Sunstrider didn't play well with boundaries. Never had.

He'd shown up in Rommath's chambers well past sunset on a Saturday, stir-crazy and stiff after a long day bound to Sunstrider Spire—no warning past the telltale tingle of a teleportation spell tearing the air.

When Rommath had asked what he was doing here, the prince answered plainly: "I'm no good at sleeping alone."

Rommath knew this; he'd known since they were boys.

And when he'd repeated the question—slowly, deliberately, with emphasis on that final, fateful syllable—the answer had sounded just as simple: "You won't tattle when my father learns I've been sneaking off in the dead of night," he'd said with a shrug. "I don't trust anyone like I trust you."

Rommath supposed it was a good reason—honest and true—he just hoped it wasn't the only one.

And if it wasn't, well—he didn't think he ought to complain anyhow.

As of now, it was their secret, and as of now, Rommath thought it ought to remain so. Couldn't have Belo'vir finding a prince tucked into his bed while he was somewhere down south.

But oh, how Rommath hated to wake him. Almost as much as he hated how maudlin it felt—it just seemed like a crime worse than treason, ruining something so perfect.

Rommath knelt by the bedside, the proper way to approach a prince, reaching across the sheets to push a hand through his tangled hair. He didn't quite catch how his touch lingered, not at first, but he pulled back abruptly when he did—almost like a flinch, but guiltier.

No matter, he'd have plenty of time to meditate on all his flaws while he visited his father. For now, he had more important priorities.

" _Kael'thas_ ," he tried again.

The prince stirred, in no great rush to reclaim his consciousness. "Mm," he mumbled, sitting up just enough to rub his eyes. "Morning, sunshine."

Rommath smiled sheepishly, hidden somewhere in the sheets. "Sleep well?"

"Splendidly." He pushed himself upright with a sigh, stretched, then slouched, slowly tuning his senses back to the waking world. "How long have you been up?"

"A while," Rommath admitted. "Had work to do. I've, ah—I'm headed down south now."

Kael's ear twitched, like he'd misheard. "Down south?" he echoed. "What for?"

"Have to speak to my father."

"Your father?" The prince kneaded at his temples. "Is he all hung up on finding you a wife again? He knows he's got no say in the matter now, doesn't he?"

Rommath pursed his lips, just less than a grimace.

"Don't  _you_?" Kael pressed.

"It's business for Belo'vir," Rommath explained.

"Forgive my cynicism, but I'm willing to bet he'll find a way to work it in," he told him. "Within the first four minutes, I'll wager. Better bring a pocketwatch." He pushed back the blankets to swing his legs over the side of the bed—one on either side of Rommath's shoulders. "I'll be surprised if you come back without a ring."

"I don't want a wife." As he knelt between the prince's legs, he'd never felt more certain of this.

"I'd like to think that mattered, Rom. You just seem to forget what you want when someone else is wanting someone different."

But suppose he found someone who wanted the same things as him? What then?

 _Don't say it, you fool_ —

Too late, he could already taste the words on his tongue; he was averting his gaze, diverting all his courage to his lips and the single, softly-spoken sentence smothered in the sheets: "And...what do you want, Your Grace?"

He tilted Rommath's head back to meet his gaze—just the perfect angle, leaving him no choice but to observe that sweet smirk through the blur of his lashes, and Light, it looked lovely that way.

"A lot of things, Rom."

He barely heard the words, but he certainly felt the breath tickling his bangs, still messy from a restful sleep.

He didn't want to stop looking—he wanted to stare—but staring at Kael'thas Sunstrider was much like staring at the sun itself, in every way. Kael was the point around which his world revolved. Kael was bright, sometimes blinding. Kael was his light—no, his  _Light_ —his patron saint.

And his prince was a merciful one. He ended Rommath's spell with a gentle pat on the cheek, taking up his usual tone as he went about his hair: "When are you planning on leaving, then?"

Rommath stared vacantly at a wrinkle in his silken comforter. "Ah...soon as I get dressed, I suppose?" he said, swaying when he stood. "Figure I ought to get it over with as soon as possible—the grand magister says I've got the weekend to myself, after that's done."

He searched his wardrobe for something less dressy while Kael smoothed the creases out of his own robes, till they didn't look like they'd spent the night on someone else's floor—not that it would've surprised anyone. "Turn around, would you? I've got to change."

The prince tilted his head, wearing half his robe and some very genuine confusion. "Don't be ridiculous, Rom."

But Rommath clutched his clothes close to his chest—and his reasons even closer—until the prince gave up, turning to face the opposite wall with a sigh. Not that he didn't trust Kael, but Rommath did the same anyhow, and he shrugged into his shirt before he could see the bandaging beneath just in case.

One loose-fitting linen shirt and some stiff leather britches later, he looked about as simple as he was physically capable of looking, in spite of his general aura of angst. "What do you think?" he asked. "Do I look like a peasant? Perhaps the pants are too tight..."

The prince was leaning against the doorframe, smirking at the robes Rommath had left in a pile on the floor. "They don't like to be called peasants, but…" He gave Rommath a thorough once-over. "You look the part. Unlace the shirt a little, here—"

Rommath wanted to flinch, but Kael's presence was a paralytic, his touch gentle, nimble—the prince had a lot of practice with laces. "There. You're perfect."

This close to his sun, he almost felt that way.

"Y...Yeah," said Rommath, breathy and blushing. "I should—"

Kael caught his hand at the wrist before any spell could steal him away, a well-timed interruption if Rommath had ever seen one. "It's early," he told him. "Why don't we walk?"

He cleared his throat. " _We_?"

"Yes, we," said the prince, straightening out his robes. "I'm not going to let you 'brave the storm' all on your own."

" _Weather the Storm_ ," Rommath corrected him—absently. He still heard the words in his father's voice.

"Whatever." The prince shrugged nonchalantly. "I don't give a damn about your house or your words, but I—" He set his jaw so he could force a smile of somewhat convincing confidence. "If this is your last day as a single man, like hell I'm going to let you spend it with anyone else."


	13. -XI-

_**Content warning: blood magic, Rommath's dad, an inexcusable amount of magical jargon (see 'Rommath's dad'), smut, and...someone just started scrolling.** _

_**You know who scrolls straight to the smut?** _

_**Aethas Sunreaver.** _

_**Don't be Aethas Sunreaver.** _

* * *

_-XI-_

The sky was steely silver, splintered by the occasional sliver of blue beyond—a feeble reminder of fair weather that grew farther and farther with each step southbound.

House Falor'dore had chosen its colors aptly.

"Are you afraid?" Kael asked.

Rommath flinched at the words—soft, but no less sudden. "Yes."

The prince snorted like a prized stallion. "I'll keep him in line, never you mind." His words sounded somewhat less sportive without his usual smirk behind them. "I'll put him in his place if he even—I...I'll—"

"Make him jump," Rommath remembered fondly.

"What?"

"Nothing," he murmured. "Don't—don't actually do that."

"I'll think of something," Kael told him. "How much time do you suppose I've got before—"

" _Stop_."

Rommath felt the spell before he ever saw it—air dense with arcane energy, hanging heavy in his lungs. A familiar sensation, reminiscent of childhood; his ancestors had built their house right atop a minor leyline junction, and the capricious weather always had them on the fritz.

But this was something else entirely.

A power field, with all the markings of a leyline flux, save one baffling distinction:  _it'd been confined_.

The prince pulled himself to a halt and straightened out his shoulders—Anasterian could say what he liked, but that "royal grooming" wasn't entirely lost on his youngest son. "What's the matter?"

Rommath stared hard at the shimmer in the air—subtle and translucent, but present all the same. "We're here."

"What is it?" Kael tapped tentatively at the wall of magic, sending ripples skittering across the surface. "Some sort of ward?"

It must've stretched skyward for sixty yards, and if Rommath had to hazard a guess, the spell must've encircled the high minister's entire estate.

"Look at the framework," he said, hushed with reverence. "It's got the same skeleton as an augmentation spell."

"What, like an intensifier?" The prince displayed his awe how he always had, narrowed eyes and disbelief. "Impossible. Too big. He'd need a conduit the size of a runestone to sustain a spell of this magnitude. Not to mention a costly catalyst. Unlikely."

Normally, yes. But his father's rank preceded him. "Just wait till you meet him."

When people spoke of the high minister, they only spoke of him in titles—like the man himself was a myth, a mere concept, and nothing more. Occasionally, Rommath was reminded why his father was the High Minister of Arcane.

And this was one of those occasions.

"Is it safe, do you reckon?" asked the prince.

Rommath's shrug was a shudder, shoulders taut as he took a tentative step past the threshold.

The air inside sang like static, so still it seemed to sizzle, and while he didn't particularly  _enjoy_  the loose mana that clung to his skin—prickled at the fine hair along his forearms—he had yet to find himself torn to tiny pieces by unstable energies.

After an agonizing five seconds of statuesque patience, Rommath concluded that they were indeed in no danger of dying.

When he turned to tell the prince, he found him standing just past his shoulder, about as hesitant as ever. Which was not at all.

Either Kael was feeling especially headstrong today, or he was just about as eager to meet the high minister as Rommath was. Which was not at all.

(The notion of being torn to tiny pieces by unstable energies was looking more inviting with each passing second.)

"Seems a little ostentatious, if you ask me," Kael told him. The words sparked like spellwork as they left his lips, crackling through the stiff air. "No one likes a showoff."

"Insecurity isn't a good color on you, I'm afraid," said Rommath, smothering a smirk.

"What? I'm not—" The prince scoffed and loosened his shoulders, one at a time. "Whatever. Everything's a good color on me; I'm blond."

Rommath didn't care to argue the point.

"I'm just saying…" said Kael, running his fingers through waist-high wildflowers as they walked. "It's a little much."

Perhaps. Even the flora seemed to bleed arcane: the flowers embraced it, petals dusted with fine flecks of spell residue, and the trees that towered above tingled from their trunks to the tips of their boughs, swathed in strands of silvery light.

And then there was the lightning, whose timing couldn't have been better had the high minister scripted it himself. The distant flashes had turned to crooked bolts as the storm rolled in, sending thunder tumbling across the sky—and rotting Kael's mood even further, it seemed.

"Did you hear that?" asked the prince, pressing closer.

"The thunder?"

"Sounded like footsteps."

"Unlikely," Rommath countered. "Thunderstorms don't have feet."

"I don't like this. It's humid. And I have a mosquito bite." Kael crossed his arms, fingers twitching anxiously against his sleeves. "Are you certain you know where we're at?"

His footfalls crackled against the grass beneath—doubtful and uneven, aching under the weight of the heavy stormclouds overhead. "My brother used to spend hours out here," he said softly—pushed the words through a thick layer of nostalgia. "He liked to draw—picture books, sketches, maps…"

Everything looked the same as it had then, beneath the sheen of arcane, flash-frozen—preserved like a memory.

The webwork of roots underfoot—a tripping hazard, he'd learned at an early age. The white-barked birch up ahead—one of those branches bore his brother's signature: a black, seven-letter scar marked into the meat of the wood. The half-rotted log just ahead—fallen during a flood when it had become home to a family of salamanders, which had promptly been found and flung at a flailing Rommath, aged four and far from fond of squirmy things.

"Do you miss him?" Kael asked.

 _Yes_.

The reply came quick, instinctive and automatic. But frankly, he wasn't certain.

Oroveth had flickered out of existence before he'd even had the chance to make an impression—on anyone or anything. He'd passed quietly, unnoticed, unfinished. Twelve forever, for the rest of eternity, while everyone else kept going, kept growing, continued on without him, unchanged—all but three, anyhow.

But Rommath didn't feel like he'd lost anything. Not as though fate could rob him of something he'd never had. The only time he'd cried was his thirteenth birthday—four years, eleven months, and thirty days delayed, but that was how long it'd taken him to realize that he'd never again be a little brother.

"I suppose."

Oroveth had always held out his hand when they hauled themselves over that fallen tree, the final marker before the forest's edge, where the wildlife ended and manicured lawn began.

But Rommath was taller now; he'd grown since then. That log was hardly an obstacle for a young magister—renounced his father and his titles and every claim to his lands, sure, but he'd inherited the high minister's height whether he wanted it or not.

And yet, that first step into his father's yard was harder than it'd ever been.

"By the Well…" came Kael's voice over his shoulder.

The prince stood still, balking and blinking, wide eyes reflecting the scenery ahead with stunning clarity:

A vortex of arcing energies, strands of light spiraling down from the clouds, just a word away from a white-hot spell. And in the center of it all, at the eye of the storm, stood the High Minister of Arcane Magic, power pulsing in his palm.

Lord Edienor Falor'dore made a convincing case for a life-sized god, shoulders back and spine straighter than the bladestaff resting against the crook of his arm. He didn't seem surprised to see his son—as a matter of fact, he hardly seemed to see him at all.

But of course, Rommath supposed. _Gods needn't concern themselves with the affairs of mere mortals_.

"Milord," Rommath greeted him, bending stiffly at the waist.

"Rommath."

"I'll be damned," the prince whispered. "They weren't lying, were they? It's like looking at a portrait done up in your likeness."

The high minister spared him a split-second glance. "This supposed to be your bride?"

 _Here we go_.

"Well," said Kael, falling in at Rommath's side. "Seven seconds—what did I tell you? Didn't even need to grab my timepiece."

Rommath made a limp gesture between the two of them. "Kael, Edienor Falor'dore, High Minister of Arcane Magic and Lord of Storm's Wake and the surrounding isles."

"It's a privilege," said the prince through his teeth.

Rommath winced. "Yes, and...um—High Minister, this is Archmage Kael'thas Sunstrider...Prince of Silvermoon, and...whatnot…"

"Forgive me if I don't bow, Your Grace," the high minister told him, "but my positioning on this rune is fairly crucial, unless you'd like to see this spell collapse back into the leyline that's feeding it."

He should've been dead, Rommath realized—splitting along the seams, bursting to bits, twitching in pieces on his mana-laden lawn.

His father, his storied house, every single story of the manor that belonged to it, and those white-faced cliffs beneath—they should've been exploding.

And Rommath almost wished they would, if only to make this all a little easier for him.

But alas, if any elf could harness a leyline without finding himself torn apart by a tangle of arcane energies, it was Lord Falor'dore.

Why? Because the whims of fate had a personal vendetta against Rommath. That was his latest theory, leastways.

"And what, pray tell, brings you back to my doorstep?" The high minister spoke his query soft and satin-smooth, less gentle and more like they weren't worth the words. "To whom do I owe the pleasure, my prodigal boy?"

Rommath tensed—just shy of a flinch, but without the recoil. He was learning to take his hits well; it was about damned time.

"Belo'vir Salonar," he said tersely. "Your presence has been missed at the last several meetings."

Somewhere over his shoulder, the prince was scoffing. " _Missed_?"

"I see," the high minister mused. "Have I been neglecting any of the responsibilities entrusted to me by my position?"

Rommath frowned. "I—"

"Do you see any of the runestones malfunctioning?"

"No—"

"That's because I tuned them each last week." He beckoned the tendrils of arcane at his fingertips into a sphere, and at the twitch of his wrist, it remained there, suspended in the air like a miniature moon. "What of the ley sanctums?"

"Nothing of note, as far as I—"

"Because I collect their reports monthly, and keep a tidy ledger of all their data—every fluctuation, every flicker." His father gouged his staff into the grass, which parted readily as he dragged the blunt end in an arc through the dirt. "And tell me, is there some backlog of arcane research awaiting my approval and editing, so that it might finally reach the grand magister's gaze?"

"Not that I know—"

"Because every experiment—each theory, hypothesis, even the vaguest inkling of an idea—passes over my desk before Salonar deigns it worthy of his time." The soil blackened and hissed as he carved curved lines around his feet—an intricate rune, not one Rommath recognized. "So tell me, boy—why is the grand magister so eager to see me suffer through sixteen hours of circular rhetoric, on a regular monthly basis? No, I think not. I'll lend my voice when they're willing to listen. And until then, I'll continue to see to my responsibilities."

"That's all well and good," said his son, hastily. Not as though anyone would be disappointed when they heard the high minister couldn't be persuaded to return. "But I should think you'd count your damned taxes among them—famed ancestors or no, you've still got to pay, just like every other citizen of Silvermoon—"

His father interrupted him with a glance—that was all it took, really—pausing his artwork to pat Rommath on the cheek. It had been a gesture of affection, once; now, mocking and nothing more. "Hm," he hummed, pitched like an incantation. "When did your grown-up teeth come in?"

Slowly. One at a time.

One for every childish error, for every flinch, for every scar he'd see and remember. Light, he'd lost half his innocence just for writing left-handed, and he still wore the marks across his knuckles to this day.

He wanted to grimace, to growl, to bare them so his father could see every last one—but those teeth weren't sharp. So he swallowed instead, obedient as ever.

At his side, Kael's shoulders tensed, tight like he was ready to throw blows. But this was no fisherman's son from the docks of Lordamere Lake. This was the High Minister of Arcane Magic, and he was not fazed.

"Tell the grand magister I'll send them when I've got a chance," said the man. "I've pressing matters to attend to."

"Hah," said the prince with a scoff. "Busy playing with pictograms in the dirt?"

Rommath nudged him, just two fingers against the taut tendons of Kael's hand—now a fist—but it was enough to keep him quiet. For now.

No matter; the prince's words slid off the high minister as though he were ice—and if the temperature of his reply was any indicator, it seemed a reasonable assumption:

"Perhaps you're not familiar with the economic climate down past the Elrendar, Your Grace, but I'd remind you that the Farstriders and its underlying organizations have claim to no less than two-thirds of my tax money, simply because of where my ancestors chose to build their home." The spell at his shoulder flared when he raised his gaze. "I'm no miser, but if my money's propping up an ineffective military that can't even keep savages off my lawn, I'd rather see it burned."

"Savages?" Rommath echoed.

"And now I've acquired the privilege of protecting a prince and the grand magister's errand boy both," his father added. "Fate smiles on me this day."

"A-Aide to the Grand Magister, actually," he said meekly. "What's this about protection now? What's going on?"

His answer came from the trees: the broken croak of a bone bugle—Rommath recognized it right away and wished that he did not—backed by six short beats on lynx-hide drums.

 _Light_.

He couldn't quite give a voice to his dread, but his heart replied just fine, hastening its pace to match the rhythm of the war drums.

"They're regrouping," the high minister reported.

Kael whirled to face the forest, a frown pulling at his features. "Amani? This close to the Elrendar? Surely they're not so bold—"

They'd been bold before. Twelve years ago, yesterday.

Rommath stumbled back a step, suddenly awkward, like an elfling—the cliffs behind him seemed so much closer, when he glanced over his shoulder.

Or maybe his head was just spinning.

Vertigo.

Or oxygen deprivation.

Was he breathing? No, he realized with a gasp.

 _Light, please, no_ —

"Suppose they aren't fond of my annual hunts," said his father, nonchalant as he traced the bones of a stasis rune now. "Finally sent a few to deal with me. Only took them—what, twelve years? Feels longer."

 _Finally_ , he said, like he'd been waiting.

"A few?" Kael asked. "Could you be a bit more specific?"

"Started with six, standard skirmisher squad," the high minister told him. "Teleported the top half of one into the Great Sea—think his legs are just a few paces past the treeline. Another swallowed enough arcane to charge Ban'dinoriel for a week, was seizing somewhere in the branches of a birch tree last I saw. The rest retreated, wounded or wise enough not to waste their time with berserker tactics."

Kael shot him a short grimace, condensed into the span of a glance.

"They move quickly. I'd give them about eight minutes," he said matter-of-factly. "Rommath, inside."

Rommath remained frozen where he stood, unable to decide whether he was a capable young man or eight years old and afraid again. The drums sounded again, thundering like the skies above, but he didn't register the noise—all he could hear was his brother—

 _C'mon, Rommath, we can pretend we're troll hunters—you've gotta stand up straight and tall, we're the bravest sellswords in all the land_!

Bold words, for a boy who'd never lived to see his voice drop.

"Rommath,  _now_ ," his father was insisting, somewhere outside his head. "As for you, Your Grace, I'm in no place to issue any orders, but I would highly recommend you do the same."

"I appreciate the advice—" His tone said otherwise. "—but I'm fairly confident I can handle myself."

Oroveth had been confident too, walking backwards through the brush as he wove a story out of thin air.

— _pretend I'm the seasoned veteran and you're the young prodigy, and I have a pet lynx with silver fur 'cause she's really old 'cause I've had her my whole life, and she's sniffing around and stops all the sudden and snarls all scary-like, and pretend you say, "wait, did you hear that?"_

They'd heard the drums before, way off in the distance, but for all they knew, the trolls were just myths, ranger propaganda, bedtime tales for naughty elflings who didn't mind their parents.

" _Rommath_." His father didn't look up from his rune, expanding its borders with expert detail, but the words carried all the weight of his stern scowl. "Do as I say."

He'd spoken the same words when the coroners came for the corpse, banished the boy to his room while they took his brother—"the body," they'd called him—so Rommath had sat silently with his sheets tangled up around him, pulled up to his nose.

Two stories of solid marble hadn't muffled his mother's wails— _Edie, don't let them take him, please, you can't let them_ —and he'd never heard her raise her voice without a hymnal in one hand, but that night, she'd  _wailed_.

The soft soprano she used on Friday evenings when she'd  _praised_  sounded strikingly similar to that last lingering cry of  _despair_ , and by the time dawn had broken over the horizon, it had dawned on Rommath that they were the same words, with the letters all mixed up—

" _Rommath_?"

Kael was reaching for him.

He recoiled when he returned to reality, staring over his shoulder at the spires behind him—blinding white against the backdrop of a black sky, thick with thunderheads.

Oroveth had died on a clear night, under a crystalline sky—speckled with starlight.

"Get him indoors, if you would," the high minister muttered. Said the words like his son wasn't even standing there.

"You leave him be," Kael snapped. Eager to prove he could defend himself before the battle had even begun. "He doesn't have to do what you say. He can hold his own just fine."

A bluff, if Rommath ever heard one.

"Six minutes." The High Minister of Arcane Magic paused to size up his son. "Very well," he conceded. "Care to match your bride's boasts with a bit of action?"

Rommath blanched. Another blast from the horn and he felt like he'd been kicked in the kidneys as adrenaline burst into his bloodstream. If it came down to fight or flight, he'd probably just freeze.

"That's what I thought," said his father.

He didn't get the chance to recoil, this time—the prince had stepped between them before the words hit his ears, fists clenched at his sides, like he'd go to blows if he got the chance.

"Makes me a little sick, you know," Kael murmured. "How you play at protecting his best interests, that is, like you'd even give a damn whether he lived or died if you weren't still trying to squeeze an heir out of him."

 _That's not true_. Rommath stared at his father, willing him to say so.  _It's not true_.

The high minister's expression expressed nothing, as usual. "Five minutes," he informed them, unimpressed. Surely he'd heard worse.

"But you can't. You can't have him," the prince persisted. "I'm glad he had the guts and good sense to renounce your name, and I'm glad your other boy died before you got the chance to trample him too, because—"

Rommath winced; Kael fought with fire, and flames spread.

"Four minutes," said Lord Falor'dore, strained. The prince had landed a blow. "Give or take thirty seconds, perhaps."

"—because you've earned your fate, milord— _hah_ —" The prince's laugh sounded the way acid tastes, like he'd brushed his teeth with vinegar that morning. "You'll die in the dark, all alone with your honor.  _That's_  what you deserve— _not him_ —"

"Step back, boy," the high minister said, nudging at Kael's boot with the butt of his bladestaff. "If you wouldn't mind."

"Beg your pardon?" The prince pricked a brow.

The barest glimmer of irritation flickered in the man's eyes, like embers touched by a breeze. "Step back—"

" _Boy_?" Kael repeated, hackles raised as he advanced.

They stood dangerously close—closer than any two colossal opposing forces ought to have stood. According to the most basic laws of physics, they should not have been able to exist as closely as they did—Kael's powder keg temper, just waiting for a spark, and Lord Falor'dore just a breath away, every bit as frigid as his name would suggest.

"Kael," Rommath tried.

"I am your  _prince_ ," he informed them. But he didn't sound like he believed it.

"Three minutes, by my estimate." A smile played on the high minister's lips—cold enough to freeze wine—and if Kael weren't so damned hot-headed, he might've frozen where he stood. As well he should've; the man seldom smiled, and rarely for the reasons one ought to. "Then prove us all wrong and behave like one, hm?"

" _Behave like—_ " The prince narrowed his eyes to slits, his features taut, holding back a hellish temper. "Ah, forgive me," he said softly. "I seem to have forgotten myself. Let us try this again, and we'll see if we can make this a conversation our forefathers would watch with pride, yes?"

The drums thundered on—closer, faster than before—or maybe it was only Rommath's pulse pounding against his arteries, beating at the bandages bound tight beneath his tunic. " _Please_ don't—"

"A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, High Minister," Kael went on. "I am Prince Kael'thas Sunstrider, son of Anasterian Sunstrider and first of my name. You may kneel."

Lord Falor'dore's staff stuttered to a halt. "Do you have a deathwish, Your Grace?"

Rommath shook his head—and, well, the rest of him. "Kael, please—"

His pleas fell on deaf ears.

"On your knees, now." Four words, a royal decree. "Else I'll see you burned for treason. I'd like to see you keep that cold demeanor when the flames are licking at your feet—teach you to insult my—"

Rommath didn't suppose they'd get the chance.

The drums had stopped.

He could hear the whoops and war cries at the edge of the brush, but he felt them more than anything—a tremor in his teeth, chasing a chill down his spine. They'd fallen upon his brother from above, bursting from the branches in a blur of blades and bone-axes.

While the prince indulged his pride, Rommath picked through the pouch at his waist, and drew a letter opener that might've looked just a little too sharp, to anyone who cared to look. No one noticed.

"If I fall," he said, "I'd ask that you spend whatever you'd set aside for my inheritance to repay your debts owed to the kingdom."

He pulled the blade over each palm, pulled the blood from his veins, pulled the arcane from his blood, draining it of all its worth. And with a word, he bound the power to a blue-white spell—a shaking, trembling, volatile spell, but a spell nonetheless.

" _Rommath_." The prince's voice was sharper than metal. "What the hell—what are you doing?"

The high minister looked upon his once-son with no more than a sidelong glance as he jabbed the foot of his staff back into the dirt. "Putting his bloodline to good use."

"It doesn't hurt," Rommath said—numbly. "Eyes up, watch the branches."

With a few muttered words, his father stabilized the rune, stepping back as it burst to life. "Tell me, Rommath," he asked, "how familiar are you with combative magic?"

His spell sputtered weakly in response.

"It's a bit like a waltz, boy," said his father. "Your opponent will set the tempo. Match their movements, keep an appropriate distance between the both of you, and most importantly,  _stay on your feet_."

Well, it took all of six seconds for Rommath to realize this would be nothing close to the half-hearted lessons he and his brother had suffered in the high minister's derelict ballroom, back when they were little lords.

First off, even the smallest of trolls stood heads taller than the willowy young women for which his instructor had prepared him. Second of all, six seconds spanned plenty long enough for him to tell that every one of these skirmishers was armed to the tusk, and it seemed safe to assume that they each knew how to wield a weapon far better than any average Silvermoon socialite. And thirdly— _Light's grace_ , he was going to die.

His partner towered over him like a tree, stood just as wide at the trunk, and wore its thirst for war as naturally as its own skin.

It dodged Rommath's first attack. Effortlessly. The second flickered free into the forest, skittering through the shadows as it vanished from view. His third try skimmed the troll's shoulder with little more than a scorch-mark to show for his efforts.

And the troll was smirking—a slow, savage smirk stretched unnaturally around the slope of its tusks.

Rommath swallowed, stalled, and then it was upon him.

Gnashing tusks—slashing claws—flashing rage in the pits of its eyes—a bulbous bone-club just seconds from scattering his brains when a pillar of light pierced the air between them, like lightning—the storm had arrived— _no_ , it was his father—hard to tell the difference sometimes—

The sharp end of his bladestaff found the meat of the monster's neck just below its jaw; metal met bone in a spray of blood, and a jolt of arcane finished the job.

"Don't think." The high minister curled his lip in disgust as he smeared a spot of scarlet from the corner of his mouth. " _Dance_ , boy."

Rommath stood there, stiffer than a corpse, and tried to locate his sense of rhythm, sieving through the sands of time as he searched his memory for any distant details about waltzes.

 _Don't step;_ glide.  _Look your partner right between the eyes_   _and stand tall, gaze level_.  _Count your beats, and breathe with the music—no, not aloud, foolish boy, count in your head._ One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Again.

He had no music, but the pulse pelting at his ears would do.

 _Dance, boy_.

 _One_. His father flashed out of view, leaving nothing but a thin vapor in his wake.

 _Don't step; glide_.

 _Two_. A new foe filled his father's footsteps before the air had even cleared, feathered longbow at the ready.

_Look your partner right between the eyes..._

_Three_. But its eyes—beady, bloodthirsty eyes—looked right through Rommath, like he was made of nothing.

_And stand tall, gaze level._

_Four_. He stood tall as he could, least until he was faced with a faceful of knuckles, knocking him aside with a guttural growl—broken Thalassian through twisted tusks: "Out da way, pup."

_Count your beats and breathe with the music—_

_Five_. The troll took aim in the span of one beat, an admirable feat, or it would've been, were the arrow not aimed directly at one fair-haired, flame-wreathed Kael'thas Sunstrider—

 _No_ —

 _Six_. A short-distance teleport took him back to Kael's side before the prince even had a chance to cry out, but all that got him was a front row seat to watch as Kael doubled over, clutching at an arm.

Rommath's world screeched to a stop—couldn't seem to keep a steady orbit without a sun—but so long as his heart continued to beat, the dance went on.

 _Again_.

He'd have to do better.

 _One_. Rommath straightened his shoulders as the troll lined up another shot; if he excelled at one thing, it was getting in the way.

 _Two_. He put his studies to work and summoned up some courage. "Aim higher—that arrow had better strike me dead." The words were hoarse, borne from split lips and a burning throat. But pain was his power. "If I bleed, you die."

 _Three_. His father was flashing in and out of view. "Keep your mouth shut, boy," he told him, the sentence snapped in two as he teleported to and fro. "Else you're bound to find an arrow in it."

 _Four_. The troll grinned, as if to affirm the statement, and adjusted his arrow accordingly.

 _Five_. Fire flickered at his fingertips before he ever registered it. Unexpected, but not unnatural—no, it was anything  _but_ —how it seethed in time with his pounding pulse, hovering hot over throbbing palms.

 _Six_. It felt just as natural as it left his hands, but the troll didn't seem to agree anymore, shrieking as it crumpled to the ground with its skin shrinking tight and black around its skeleton.

_Good. Again._

_One_ —the flames poured from one corpse from the next—unrelenting, uncontrolled, scorching streaks of soot into the high minister's lawn.

 _Two_ —and the high minister himself was a storm, moved like lightning with a staff in one hand and a fistful of arcane in the other—a dancer indeed.

 _Three_ —Kael, on the other hand, was making do with his other hand, flinging white-hot flames to keep his attackers at bay.

A three-man waltz, set to no particular tune.

 _Four_ —bodies bleeding in the dirt, blackened to match the burnt ground beneath them or rent to pieces by the high minister's magic.

 _Five_ —seconds Rommath spent burning the same bastard, he'd sworn he saw it move— _you'd better not move_ —

 _Six_ —skinny streams of scarlet snaking down his skin, soaking his sleeves.

 _One_ —more shirt he'd never wear again;  _two_ —more trolls that didn't care about his wardrobe;  _three_ —steps to close the distance, but trolls didn't glide, they leapt, like the one leaping at him, unafraid, throwing all its weight into a tackle that took Rommath back—

" _Dad_ —" That cry had belonged to Oroveth, and it felt just as futile falling from Rommath's lips—his final words would be the same wasted breath.

— _four_ —yards, maybe more, but he couldn't tell, couldn't see his companions, couldn't see Kael, couldn't hear, ears ringing;  _five_ —rings of raptor teeth, arranged neatly along the head of a mace, the kind he'd seen in illustrations in Oroveth's adventure books, but this one was held high for a swing that would reunite him with his brother in a matter of seconds;  _six_ —streaks of light searing the air, a barrage of blinding magic that found its mark right between the shoulders of one unsuspecting savage.

His heart raced; the dance continued, but the tempo was dragging now.

 _One_  silhouette scarred blue-green against the backs of his eyelids, shaped like the savage that now lay sprawled across him, deadweight and heavy.

 _Two_  eyes peering down at him, a stare that matched his own, concern buried beneath cold.

 _Three_  seconds of silence between them, his would-be killer nudged aside by the high minister's boot as the rhythm slowed—he could breathe once more.

 _Four_  words fell from his father's lips as he hauled Rommath to his feet: "Foolish boy." The words had never sounded so soft. "Y-You could've…"

 _Five_ fingertips pressing at his forearm, dug in deep, afraid to let him go.

 _Six_  times Rommath had heard his father stammer—that was all, in all his years—and never the way he did now, the High Minister of Stuttering and Shuddering.

"When is the next meeting?" he said faintly.

Rommath's breaths came quick and shallow, scarcely enough to support the words: "Two weeks, three days—"

"In normal Thalassian, if you please," his father told him.

"The twenty-first of July. It's a Monday."

Lord Falor'dore let go of his son like he'd forgotten he was holding on, and when he looked at the blood that covered his hands, he was himself once more—grim and grimacing. "Tell the grand magister that he can expect to see me then." His shoulders slackened and he swayed where he stood. "Shall I send for someone to see to that wound, Your Grace?"

The prince was shaking his hand out, lips puckered as he tried his best casual shrug. "Just grazed me—didn't hit anything important. Hurts like a bitch, though."

"I see," said the high minister, dipping his head in a belated bow. "Very well then. If you'll excuse me, I must...rest." He drew a handkerchief from his robes to wipe his staff clean, so it could serve him as a cane. "Call off those fires before you go."

And with that, the High Minister of Arcane Magic was gone, framed exquisitely by a flash of lightning as he stalked across his smoldering lawn.

A thunderclap rolled through the clouds above—a standing ovation for the lightning's bold performance—rattling Rommath's ribcage, as if he weren't already shaken. But the storm couldn't compare to the prince's sharpened stare, looking like the letter opener sitting safe (if slightly sticky) in his side pocket.

Kael's eyes had settled on his split palms, and if Rommath weren't bleeding already, surely he'd have been by the time that stare found them.

"It's just a little blood," Rommath reassured him. "Were it up to our company here, I'd have lost a whole lot more."

The prince did not smirk, nor shrug, nor shift his stare for so much as a second, not even to glance at the corpses that littered the lawn. He merely stepped forward, a movement so slight he might've only leaned, taking Rommath's right hand in his own as he ran his fingers along rent flesh.

Rommath had nothing to say for himself, save a soft hiss.

"Want to tell me how long?" Kael asked.

Still operating on a shortage of air, he could do no better than a half shrug—maybe more of a shiver. "Don't know what you mean—"

"How long?" The gesture became significantly less gentle—rough in a way that reeked of desperation. "Tell me. I want to hear it."

"We should get going," Rommath said weakly. "It's getting dark."

The prince released him with such a start that he nearly toppled. "Very well." He spoke the words smoothly, and in that moment, he sounded quite like a Sunstrider. "Let us leave."

At the flick of his wrist, a portal was born, tearing open the air between them. Without a word, he commanded Rommath to follow.

Now, the first rule his father had ever taught him—when his father had still taught him things—stated that he ought never to take a teleportation spell from a stranger. Or anyone he didn't trust, for that matter.

 _Else you might end up somewhere you don't particularly want to be_ , the not-yet-high-minister had told him.  _At the edge of an abyss, or tangled in the Twisting Nether, or...I don't know, Lordaeron City, perhaps. Somewhere treacherous and unknown._

Rommath feared the unknown, this much was true, but he trusted Kael—or maybe that was what frightened him.

It mattered not.

That twitch in the crest of one white-blond brow was a direct order, a royal edict, and—effortlessly—Rommath obliged.

He didn't recognize the scene he stepped into, richly colored walls and vaulted ceilings, lit by lavish sconces—if lit were a proper word at all, provided the shadows that clung to the baseboards. Sunstrider sigils caught the light, woven seamlessly into his surroundings, so subtly that he'd hardly noticed, at first—along the borders of the tapestries, embroidered in the robes of fair-haired figures in every portrait, dangling from the ceiling on idle banners.

But in the inky blackness, he saw no comfort in this. Nor the Sunstrider-shaped stranger who followed him through the portal, snapping it shut behind him with exaggerated elegance, like some crude caricature of the Kael he knew.

"The foyer," said the prince. "Move quickly, lest the servants catch wind of us."

Rommath's shadow flickered ominously over paintings and silk draperies as he passed, equally hesitant to follow its master. "I—I've never been to the palace before—I wish I'd dressed a little nicer—"

"Austriel Hall," Kael corrected him swiftly. "House Sunstrider's country home. Or more notably, the official love nest of the royal family. We've been toting our extramarital trysts down here since the days of Dath'Remar."

Explained why Rommath couldn't shake the feeling that he didn't belong.

That, or the portraits—all the stares of Sunstriders passed followed him as they fled the foyer, and Kael's were the only eyes that wouldn't touch him.

"Father says that many a mistress has made her mark on history within these very walls," the prince continued. His expansive gestures seemed hollow, lacking. "So it seems that history is written in raised marks down monarchs' backs."

Rommath tucked his hands behind him, holding blood between his fingers, and kept to Kael's heel like a faithful hound. "I'd believe it."

"You'd believe anything."

"If it came from your lips."

If the prince had turned around, or angled his gaze just a tad, he'd have seen a subtle smirk, desperate to break past the tension. But he did not turn, and the tension lived on.

"Come along," Kael told him. "Quickly, now."

The prince scaled the stairs to the second story three at a time—quite obviously unnecessary, but Rommath politely ignored this, and pretended he didn't remember when Kael would've pulled him along by the sleeve.

Or held his hand just because the corridor was colored like night.

Or just because he wanted to be close, the prince had once confessed.

(In a whisper. Barely a breath. A gentle, teasing, wine-soaked breath.)

"Posthaste," Kael was insisting. He'd reached the end of the hall by the time Rommath made the staircase's summit, leaning awkwardly, one shoulder against a door frame. "In here, hurry—do you know the meaning of  _posthaste_ , Rommath? Like haste, but faster, or the opposite of what you—"

"I know what it means," he said softly, barely audible as he passed.

The prince shut the door behind them, sealing them in darkness with little more warning than the click of the lock falling into place.

"The staff know better than to follow anyone to the bedchambers," he said to the black room, or maybe to Rommath, though it seemed unlikely. "Even still, ought to keep quiet. If they find out I'm here, they'll go straight to my father, and he'd want to know who I'd dragged down here, and…"

A gesture in the dark set each sconce aflame, and suddenly the room seemed too big for the two of them. Naked, nearly devoid of decor, save a vastly oversized bed—dressed in a mess of silk sheets, tossed haphazardly across a nightstand—a trio of busts perched on marble, and a wardrobe obscured beneath a thin layer of dust.

But the far wall—if it could be called a wall at all—was made from stained glass, a myriad of colors that must've looked beautiful when the sun was shining. And all he could do was stare.

"I've got to say, most of my guests are more impressed," Kael told him.

Dulled words like broken arrowheads, as if they were meant to be pointed, but they just...weren't.

"I'm not your lover."

"No, I don't suppose so." The prince took a seat at the edge of the bed to take a better look at his arm. "No excuse not to make yourself comfortable."

Rommath wasn't sure he knew how—or that he'd ever known—but at the present moment, he didn't suppose he was capable of much more than swaying.

Shins aching, hands throbbing, head swimming, heart racing.

Nearly swayed right into the alabaster likeness of Prince Nallorath and promptly retreated right back to the border of the room, bashful and awkward like a little boy.

"M-My father has a couple dozen of these in the drawing room—down on the first floor," he said with a nervous laugh. "All his most famed ancestors, I suppose, back to Aelorath the Stormbreaker, b-but, um, when I was little, I thought they were all just busts of my father—just with different eyebrows. We really do look alike, all of us—"

"You're nothing like him," Kael informed him.

Rommath dropped his gaze. "I...I know…"

The prince scowled. Could've been for his wound or directed at the high minister, draped over a divan somewhere on his sixth floor, but it didn't seem to matter anyhow. "It was a compliment."

"Oh," was all Rommath could say.

"You don't think so?" Kael asked.

"I've never given it much thought."

"I find that— _Light_ —fucking—piss in the Well, that fucking stings—" He hissed out a sigh as he peeled back the fabric. "Find it hard to believe, that's all."

"Let me see," Rommath said, smoothing out the sheets as he sat beside him. "Be still, please."

The prince ran his able hand through his hair in reply.

"Or just...promise me you'll try."

He kept a roll of linen by his letter opener. Bandages, he'd told Belo'vir— _it never hurts to be prepared_ —and he'd never lied, not really.

"Do you always keep those on your person?" Kael asked, suspiciously mild.

Rommath said nothing, concentrating at his work. He wasn't a healer, not in any sense of the word, but he bound wounds with spellbound focus—practiced precision.

And Kael kept still, just as he'd been told, truly a moment for the history books. Rommath might've mentioned it, if he knew where his voice had gotten off to.

"You're making a mess," the prince said, sudden and soft. "Your hands are shaking and you got blood on the blankets."

"That's not yours," Rommath told him.

"Looks like mine."

"It's not."

"How do you know?" Kael asked.

He was quite familiar with his own blood, really, but he didn't think he ought to say so. So he said nothing again, winding the linen along Kael's arm till it reached his elbow.

"I think you're quite proud of your bloodline, for all the misery it's brought you," the prince announced.

Rommath wouldn't say he felt miserable, but he chose to say nothing still.

Kael hiccupped when the bandage was pulled tight and tied off, cursing colorfully once he'd found his breath. "Can't believe I let that bastard  _shoot_  me—just wait till my father hears, bet he'll be the first to tell me I'm a fool," he rambled on, stiff with pain. "Rommath?"

He tore himself some linen, twin strips lying limp across his lap, and lifted his gaze—just for a second.

"Do you miss your name?" he asked. "Not Rommath—er, your  _name_ , like, your surname and your house and everything, that's what I meant."

His fingers were ghost-white and numb, but they worked diligently, to the best of their ability. Holding his lower lip between his teeth, there wasn't much he could say, but he secretly thought he would've said nothing anyhow.

"Your silence speaks volumes," Kael told him.

"Always has." The words were quiet, almost nothing—the most he could manage.

"Guess so." The prince pulled Rommath's hand into his lap, a gesture which the latter would've appreciated greatly were he not bleeding and muted by pain. Which was not to say that it went unappreciated, or at least it did until Kael snatched a swatch of linen and wrapped Rommath's gashed palms with no warning past a whispered, "Allow me."

But oh, he was tender. Clumsy and blundering—he hadn't a clue what he was doing, but he was so attentive, too gentle for Rommath to give much of a damn. No matter, no matter; he could redo the bandages when he went home—er, if ever he figured out what he'd say to Belo'vir.

He closed his eyes until the prince had finished—he'd taken his sweet time, had certainly been sweet about it—but by the time Rommath had blinked the bare room back into focus, the prince was on his feet again.

Kael stood at the wall of stained glass, stood so close he stared right through it. Or maybe that was what he'd meant to do, as he peered past the mosaic and all its pieces.

"Are you tired?"

"Uh, I—"

He didn't wait for an answer. "I don't really care for rain," he said. "Makes me awfully sleepy. I miss the snow. Don't you?"

"Mm," Rommath mused, "the cold made my knees ache. But one can miss the snow and not the cold, can't they?"

Kael shrugged. "Don't see why not."

"Then yeah," he said. "I miss the snow."

"Snow's so fucking simple," said the prince. "Just rain that got a little too chilly." He rested his forehead against the glass with a soft  _bonk_. "But the simple shit was beautiful—wonderful, you know?"

"Snow's the most wonderful thing that ever existed." It was an echo, the smallest Sunstrider's favorite refrain, back when he was a boy. "Isn't that what you used to say?"

The prince stared harder at the glass, but he was looking closer, now—watching his reflection, Rommath realized. "We used to be simple too, huh?"

He gave him a dour smile, something like a wince. "I don't remember that."

"Simpler, though. We didn't—we could just—" He made a helpless gesture. "Whatever. I'm exhausted. C'mere."

Rommath rose without hesitation.

"Help me with my clothes, would you?" Kael asked, arms outstretched as he waited. "The royal regalia's a bitch to get out of."

Rommath had seen him strip out of it in seconds when someone pretty walked past, but he didn't think much of it. Didn't want to think of it, really.

Not that thinking came easily when he was unfastening Kael's copious cloak and all its trappings. Gold braided chains, heavy hooks, clasps and buckles; the robes beneath were rich mageweave, laced like a lattice down his spine.

 _All_  the way down.

A bold man might've begun at the bottom, but Rommath was...well, anything but.

He exhaled—with great effort—and started from the top, between the shoulders. He'd work his way down.

Slowly. Reverently. Wide eyes, pupils blown, trembling lip between his teeth.

"Your father's a bastard," Kael said suddenly, his words fogging the glass. "But he's got a gorgeous house, can't argue that."

Rommath found his breath—a gasp, but a soft one. "Can you see it from here?"

"We're closer than you'd think." The prince shrugged out of his robes with ease— _such ease, Light, he'd never had to try in his life, had he?_ —and shook off his boots once he'd loosened them down to the knee, persistent perfection down to his stockings. "Can even see his banners when the weather's fair."

Rommath didn't turn to look, addressing Kael's increasing state of undress with full attention.

"Do you regret turning your back on it?" he asked. Dangerous curiosity. "It's a harmless question."

A tug at the prince's belt made for a measly reply, but it was the best Rommath had to offer.

"I see." Shedding his tunic and his undershirt swiftly, Kael crossed his arms over the backdrop of a bare chest, forearms flexed—a flare away from furious. "You're not getting married."

Rommath stooped low to start at his britches, vacant enough to mimic nonchalance. "I...I wasn't even thinking about—"

"You asked me what I wanted," Kael told him. "This morning. When you were on your knees at my bedside."

He remembered—of course he remembered. "Wh-Why w—"

"Because you're in love with me," said the prince.

His heart stuttered, sent all the blood left in his veins heading to his head—headrush, hot cheeks, twitching ears.

"Why would you say that?"

The prince shrugged, watching Rommath fight with his laces. "I'm honest, when I can afford to be."

Rommath gave his waistband a conclusive tug and stepped back, eyes averted; Kael could handle the rest on his own. "How long have you known?"

"Hah, please." With the silks and furs at his feet, coiled like shed skin, the prince looked himself once more. The stranger was gone. "Longer than you, I'd bet."

He was going to die of sheer embarrassment, an unprecedented case that the healers would remember for ages to come. They'd preserve his obituary: "Rommath, of no particular name, died of blushing on a wet night in early July."

But he had a hard time imagining that the news would surprise anyone.

"Come, Rommath," said the prince, reaching casually for his collar. "Time for bed."

"What're—Kael—leave that be—"

"Don't be coy, now," he told him. "We've seen each other a thousand times—"

"I'm—ah, cold—"

"The perspiration along your temples says otherwise, my dear."

"Unrelated to the temperature—"

"Y'know, I've never been in love," Kael murmured, leaning close so Rommath could feel the words—warmth against his skin, "but in my experience, people are usually a bit more enthusiastic about undressing for their lovers—"

"K-Kael…" It was a feeble protest, silenced by a breath against his throat, caught under the collar of his shirt. "You're not going to—you're gonna be upset—"

"Upset?" he said with a scoff—two syllables of  _heat_. "That's absurd. You're absurd. Always have been."

"Kael'thas—"

"Rommath?"

"You'll be angry."

"Angry?" he cooed, pushing back a few strands of black that hung between them. "At you? No, no. Never."

"You will. You told me—"

" _I know what I said_." The hand in his hair turned to an iron fist, holding him still and stiff as Kael leaned all his weight on him—inches shy of a collapse. "I know about—about everything. I knew the whole time, all right?"

Rommath went blanch-white, but at least the blush was gone.

"You think I didn't see?" Kael asked. "I'm not blind. Think I didn't notice when you started sleeping on your back? And you winced when you sighed—and you were always so pale—and you stopped breathing when I'd pull you in for a hug or even touched you and I thought you'd suffocate yourself if I so much as stood close to you, so I  _didn't_ —"

"You didn't say anything," Rommath managed.

"But neither did you!" The prince took a breath—it hissed like a leak, a split in the seams of his composure. "Of course I knew, you fool—you can't fool me, I'll tell you until you believe me. I know you head to toe, shoulder to shoulder, inside out and right side in—every inch of you, every scar— _Light_ , Rommath, your ribs? Those don't even bleed well, you know that—"

He shook his head slowly. "It doesn't hurt," he insisted.

"Maybe not you, Rom." Kael smoothed out his poise and Rommath's freshly-creased collar in the span of a sigh, stepping back for a better look at him. " _Strip_. I want to see."

He hesitated. "You don't."

"I need you—I need you to—" Raw words, unpolished, unrefined. "I need to know they're not as bad as I'm picturing them, that's all."

And so Rommath did as he was told. But he kept his shirt close, twisted up in his fist in case he should need it.

Kael advanced, bold as ever, but gentle when he reached for the bandages, drawing them back layer by layer until they lay loose at his feet. Unraveled.

"Did you picture them often?" Rommath asked, staring hard at the floor.

The prince ran two fingers along his ribs, over old scars and new, pulling back whenever he reached a fresh wound, and then resuming his inspection—scholarly precision.

"A bit crooked," Kael remarked.

"I'm no surgeon," he replied, shrugging.

"Mmhm." He rotated Rommath clockwise to survey his sides more fully. "You use your right hand when you do it?"

"Yes."

"Of course you do."

Another rotation, so Rommath stood with his back turned as the prince traced the length of his spine, searching for scars long-faded—ancient history. "If...you knew all along," he started, speaking slowly, regretting every word as it passed his lips, "why didn't you say something? Er—anything?"

Kael's eyes never left his skin, narrowed in scrutiny. "Trusted you'd tell me when you wanted me to know." The prince met Rommath's stare for half a second, but shook his head as he thought better of himself. " _If_."

"I…" Rommath frowned at his feet. "I wasn't talking about blood magic."

The prince's lips twitched. "Neither was I."

"W-Well," he said hastily, "if you expected me to confess, you must not know me all that well after all."

Kael laughed, but it rang hollow. "You're covered in scars," he told him, finishing his appraisal at Rommath's knuckles. Tender. "I won't be another."

Rommath snorted, too cynical to appreciate the prince's attempts at romantic poetry. "Well, that's cryptic," he said. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He took a step back just to take a couple more to his right, then four more to the left, pacing the floor as he processed his reply.

"I'm a natural talent," he said—empty words, filled with loathing. "Or something like that. Don't know if that's the best description, but that's the one everyone uses. I'm a very fortunate young man—that's another."

He pivoted, lengthening his strides to cross the distance of the room, wall to wall.

Waiting, Rommath realized, but he said nothing of it—same old, same old.

"My heritage, my name, my mind," he went on, shrugging. "Well, it's not mine—doesn't belong to me, not really. I'm little more than the result of good breeding. Not that I'm complaining; I think I learned how to flex my talents anyhow, regardless of their source. Stretch them, even. Nineteen when I made the Council of Six— _nineteen_. Impossible, that's what everyone said."

"It  _was_ ," Rommath added. "Till you."

"Impossible is nothing," he said with a dismissive gesture. "Impossible is what we allow it to be."

The prince had lived by those words; they'd taken him far, miles ahead of his peers.

"But it shouldn't be." He punctuated each pivot with a hand through his hair. "People need limits, so they can set goals, guide their paths. And those paths need stumbling blocks—pitfalls—so they can learn to leap them, how to hurdle—I just hurtle—no ambitions, reckless."

His pace matched his words, faster with every turn. Rommath's eyes were growing tired just watching him.

"Father says I lack self-control," he told him. "Says I'll never make a ruler without it." He made a face like the one he'd given Telestra every time she tossed a sprig of broccoli on his plate—Kael the boy, he just wanted to be simple. "I'm something to be reckoned with, a force of nature, that's what all the scholarly journals say."

He came to a halt, hands in his hair as he turned to face Rommath fully.

"I say I'm a tempest," he confessed. "Pretty, from afar. Terrifying up close."

"I'm not scared of you," Rommath said softly. "As it happens, I come from a long line of stubborn mages who aren't afraid of storms."

"All my life, I've been told I've got potential," he murmured. "But Father says I've got potential to be a disaster. I'm selfish, self-indulgent, sinful—without even an ounce of sense to make up for it. But then, he says I don't listen too, and you know, I hear everything…"

Rommath stood still, stoic, unfazed. "This supposed to be news to me?" he asked. "Did you ever consider that while you were getting to know me—inside out and upside down or any other direction—that I was doing the same?"

"Yes, but...you love me." The way Kael spoke it, it could've been a question.

"Sorry about that."

"Do you see why that's...problematic?" the prince asked him.

"Aside from the obvious?"

"Not my titles, nor my name, nor my looks or 'exquisite breeding.'  _Me_."

"W-Well, looks and exquisite breeding don't hurt—"

"That's not—I don't—" Kael stumbled backwards, seating himself clumsily on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. "I'm not going to find that anywhere else, in anyone but you."

Rommath's smile, though small, felt largely absurd. "Like we're soulmates?"

"What? No." The prince rubbed at his temples, an exhausted sigh dragging his shoulders down as it fell from his lips. "Like you're the only soul in this sorry city who's stupid enough to stick around for more than a weekend, in spite of—despite everything."

He didn't flinch; the words were weak, impotent—harmless. "I choose to think of it as willful ignorance. It's something of an art."

"Well, whatever it may be," said the prince slowly, ready to take back the words in a heartbeat if Rommath gave him the slightest cause, "I—occasionally—get this sense that I can't survive without it." He leaned forward, off-balance and desperate. "No one stays—I ruin everyone, every time, you've seen me do it. Everything I touch turns to shit, and—and you're the closest thing I've got to gold—and I can't ruin that—it'll ruin me—"

Rommath, very quietly, crossed the room to take a seat at his side. It was an automatic response, about as voluntary as a sneeze.

"I...I suppose I've heard of gold turning into plenty of things," he said. "Cufflinks, currency, even crowns—" He glanced at the white-gold circlet resting lopsided atop the prince's hair. "But I've never seen someone turn gold into shit. Think that'd take quite a deceiver."

Kael didn't look at him. "I wouldn't be surprised if it turned out to be me."

"Kael'thas," he said, leaning close to catch his eye. "Don't…"

Words failed him—same old, same old.

He drew a deep breath, as if to crystallize this moment in his memory—the patter of rain on the window, a flash of lightning through the stained glass and a black sky beyond, Kael's warmth beside him, the unsteady rise and fall of his shoulders as he stared ahead.

If he turned his head just an inch to the right, perhaps two, they'd sit face to face, barely a breath between them—

"Rommath—" Kael started.

He almost flinched at Kael's breath on his cheeks, a startling reminder of exactly how little space remained between them.

 _Just an inch_.  _You've been closer_.

_Think with your brain, not with your mind._

He never felt himself lean forward, just the sudden awareness of Kael's lips pressed to his—soft at first, then pursed tight in a frown.

" _Rommath_."

He pulled back slowly, though it felt abrupt all the same—incomplete, perhaps. "I—I'm sorry, I'm so—I don't know why I...I'm so sorry—"

"Stop, stop that," Kael said, shaking his head.

Rommath was shaking too, till Kael caught him—one hand at the nape of his neck, fingers tangled in the fine hairs, but tender nonetheless.

"I'm sorry," he told him, one last time.

The prince pitched forward like a leap of faith, and he took Rommath right down with him, knocking him flat on his back for a proper kiss—pinned to the mattress in perfect form.

Kael kissed like he had when he was young and simple, thirteen years old and already the best kisser in Quel'Thalas  _and_  the kingdoms of men, at least by his reckoning.

But this time, he didn't stop.

Not for a fist full of Rommath's hair, not to tug at the tangles—hasty and careless, because his other hand was straying south, over shoulder, sternum, stomach, lower—and certainly not to hold Rommath's hip still as he followed his fingertips with sloppy kisses, wet and warm and willful as they turned the tide of his blood flow with their passing.

And then, as suddenly as he'd pulled him in, Kael withdrew, wiping his lips as he got to his feet. "Undress."

Rommath hesitated, breathless and baffled, but it sounded like an order, and Kael's sidelong glance just dared him to disobey.

The prince made his way to the nightstand in half the steps he should've, clumsy with haste as he tore through the drawers in search of—

Perfume?

The timing struck him as slightly inconvenient, or perhaps that was just the persistent throbbing in his groin, but as far as Rommath knew, perfume typically wasn't applied to one's— _oh_.

 _Right_.

However inexperienced, he'd received more knowledge than any innocent ought to thanks to a certain prince's a tendency to brag (with Astalor's aid, which had offered a lot more imagery than Rommath might've preferred), so when Kael slicked his fingers next, he had a vague idea what to expect.

"Might be a bit cold," the prince warned anyhow. "Only momentarily, I promise." He pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, smirking—a half-apology. "You'll warm up pretty quickly."

Well, the lubricant wasn't quite cold, but the shudder that followed had less to do with temperature and entirely everything to do with Kael's handiwork.

And the hand that was skirting dangerously high across his thigh—tentative, teasing.

 _Light_ , his hands.

They worked generously, attentive even as Kael leaned over top of him for a few final kisses—messy and eager, a wet trail running from shoulder to shoulder, to the soft skin beneath his jaw.

And then, as promised:  _heat_.

There was no gradual entry, like the ones published in Telestra's racy novels.

Just a low purr, the sound of Kael's air supply exiting through pursed lips; a muffled moan, caught in the prince's hand before Rommath managed to draw any unwanted attention; and the crack of the headboard against the wall behind as it reeled with each successive snap of Kael's hips.

Because the prince adored his dramatic entrances.

And then came the friction, the roll of Kael's hips, the rhythm, not sweet and not slow—he felt the heat in his chest, in his bones, in his veins. Down to his very fingertips, every single one, tied up and strangling in the prince's hair as Rommath pulled him closer— _closer, please—_

Those words marked the moment that he lost the ability to process thought, only the exchange of sense for sense, and the rewards it yielded:

The hum along his throat—a shallow sigh—tickled his skin till it burned to the touch, and every touch wrought a fresh breath from his lungs—raw breaths, hisses and gasps—and every rush of air past his lips was a plea for—

"More-merciful-Light-please-more—"

A breath well-spent—his empty lungs bought him his fill of Kael, and then some.

See, the prince didn't take orders; however, it would seem he  _did_  accept prayers—but only those spoken in frenetics, desperate and frenzied, the verbal equivalent of begging from one's knees. With a wordless warning, he obliged, angling his thrusts down deeper till Rommath's voice caught—

Rommath had read in numerous works of fiction that one ought to close their eyes when the tension turned to tense muscles and trembling breaths, but when he tried, it felt foolish.

He wanted to see everything. He wanted to see Kael—muscle sliding under skin, rigid bone beneath, and the slightest sheen of perspiration along his shoulders, all through a veil of white-blond hair that fell over him like a curtain.

When Kael kissed him, it was like looking at the world through a shaft of sunlight—but here, there was no world. It didn't exist, didn't matter.

Just Kael.

This close to the sun, there was only light—and heat,  _Light_ ,  _the heat_ —Kael burned his silhouette into Rommath's skin with every touch, like scars of a different sort, and he hoped these ones would last the years, because he didn't want to forget  _for once_ —

Self-restraint slipped from his grasp with a shuddering sigh, and when it slipped, it spilled—strewn across his stomach like a string of pearls, hot against his heaving flanks.

Kael shushed him till his hips hitched and stilled, concluding the affair with a feverish rush of breath, swears, and other.

And then it was ended—shuddering hearts found their rhythm once more, bringing blood back to their respective brains.

And inevitably, the thoughts followed.

Too many climaxes to be called anticlimactic, Rommath supposed, but it wasn't nearly so ceremonious as he'd imagined.

No. It was perfection—the polished, refined sort of perfection his mind wasn't even capable of comprehending on its own.

It was real.

And...quiet.

"Is it always so...tight-lipped…?" Rommath asked, baring his naivete with a blush. "After, that is?"

Kael dabbed at Rommath's stomach with his little finger and made a well-rehearsed show of licking it clean. "If you'd prefer to loosen your lips next time, it can be arranged."

"That's not what I meant."

The prince smirked as he pulled the covers up over himself. "Well, I don't typically stick around to chat," he admitted. "Busy man, and all. Don't like to overstay my welcome, when I can avoid it." He pushed back a few strands of hair sweat-stuck to his forehead, and heaved an earnest sigh. "Hence why I hate playing host. Some people don't have the good sense to leave—that's when it gets awkward."

Rommath didn't have a reply for that—didn't even breathe.

However, on a slightly more optimistic note, it appeared his fight-or-flight responses were in working order after all, or at the very least,  _flight_ —

Kael had him by the wrist before he could get very far, a steel grip so solid it might as well have been welded. "If you wanted to leave me, you should've done so before. As of now, that time is past."

"You said—"

"Rommath," he breathed. "You remember when I used to dream of the Void?"

"How could I forget?" Rommath remembered everything. Normally, he regretted it; this time, he didn't mind. "You'd wake shaking and sobbing, clinging to my hair and begging me not to leave, because you'd be all alone. It was positively traumatic."

"For  _you_?"

"Well, naturally, I was—perhaps that was insensitive," Rommath told him. "Do...you still dream of the Void?"

"No, no," said the prince, pulling Rommath back to the safety of the blankets. "Those ones stopped when I graduated."

He frowned, perplexed. "Oh?"

"Now I just dream of crowds," Kael told him. "Massive crowds, filled with familiar faces, but I—if you asked me to name a single soul out of that whole damned mob, if my life depended on it, I'd be a dead man. Because I never can. Not a one."

Rommath reclined, lying flat on his back, where he watched the prince from his periphery.

"How can I know all of those people and not come up with a single name?" The prince smiled sourly. "But then they start talking. Trying to get my attention."

"Are you certain this is a nightmare?" Rommath suggested. "You've always been quite fond of attention."

"But they're not asking for me," Kael told him, the words frayed at the ends. "It's always "archmage" or "Your Grace" or "Prince Sunstrider" or "son" or—Kael'thas, never Kael." He shrugged, a hopeless gesture. "I guess they don't know me either."

Rommath didn't ask if he ever appeared in the prince's dreams. He didn't suppose he wanted to know. So he shifted his weight instead, rolling onto his side—it ached, but it brought him closer to Kael.

"And then…" He paused, tracing a vein along Rommath's arm. "The first day I taught at the Violet Citadel, I woke up late. I almost didn't see you—asleep on the sofa in your fucking shoes, dressed for the marketplace, with a bottle of Dalaran noir in the crook of your arm."

Rommath groaned. "I remember that," he muttered. "Had to wake up at three in the morning to get my hands on that Lightforsaken wine. Do you know how fast those bottles fly off the shelves during Brewfest? The vintners said they had people travelling up from Lakeshire just for a taste.  _Lakeshire_."

"And you told me it was no trouble," Kael said. "But that's not the point—I don't care about the wine—"

"—are you serious? I paid three times the going rate—"

"You'd tied a note to the neck of the bottle," the prince continued. " _Good luck with your lecture, Master Sunstrider_. And then in parentheses—far off, like an afterthought— _Kael_. Never thought my name looked quite so beautiful as it did in your handwriting."

"Everyone's name looks beautiful in calligraphy."

"Irrelevant," Kael said, waving a hand. "Y'know, ah—nevermind. I'm not making sense. How about some sleep, shall we?"

The prince had collapsed face-down in the sheets before he even had the chance to protest, slinging an arm across his chest like a stockade—like Rommath had even the faintest intention of leaving.

Kael's expression was hidden, masked by a sea of sheets and plenty of pale hair scattered about them, and the rhythmic stalls in his breathing sounded just like sleep, but Rommath knew him better. He was concentrating on his breaths, measuring each take; he was terrified.

"Kael," Rommath whispered, wide-eyed and flushed. "You make sense to me."

The prince smirked through his hair. "I know," he said. "Tell me you love me, would you?"

"I love you," he said, casually whole-hearted. He meant it.

"Good. I'm not going to hurt you," he said, eyes closed and earnest. And then, to Rommath: "Stay gold for me."

Rommath smiled. He always did as he was told.


	14. Smolder

_-Smolder-_

Aethas Sunreaver either blinked entirely too much, which gave the impression of a newborn butterfly boasting brand new wings; other times, he blinked less than a corpse.

"Well," he said, swallowing drily. "That was quite the finale."

The grand magister frowned behind his starched collar. "Oh?"

"Well—" Sunreaver was struggling to collect his composure as well as all the belongings he'd strewn across Rommath's desk during the story's course. "—hey, you didn't want your father's chronicle back, did you? Because, y'know, by all accounts, it doesn't belong—all right, fine, I'll leave it. Stop scowling, old man. Anyway, thanks for indulging me. Suppose I should be on my way."

"You're leaving?" Rommath asked.

"Not if you don't want me to," said Sunreaver, smirking over his shoulder as he turned to go.

"That isn't what I said," the grand magister muttered. "I'm just sincerely baffled as to why you assumed I was done."

Sunreaver stopped on his heels. "I-I didn't mean anything by it," he told him, "but I...well, there were certainly a few less-than-polite rumors floating around Dalaran when it came to the prince's relationship tendencies, at least while I was there."

Rommath raised a brow.

"Or...lack thereof..." Aethas clarified.

"Mmm," he hummed, deep down in his chest. "I see. And you thought, what? I was simply too emotionally stunted for anything more permanent than a scattered string of one night stands?" His laughter was hoarse and humorless. "Rommath? That bitter boy? No—of course not."

"Well, forgive my presumption, but you haven't mentioned any relationships," said Sunreaver. "And according to the ranger-general—"

Rommath cut him off with an expert eye roll, exaggerated to show detail in the case of idiocy—or in this instance, Aethas Sunreaver. "Spare me."

"I didn't mean to offend," Aethas assured him. "Maybe my math was off."

"What?" The grand magister occasionally found himself so startled by Sunreaver's stupidity that he forgot to mock him for it. "Your math?"

"Yes, I can complete basic arithmetic, thank you," said Sunreaver, scowling. "I don't know if you've forgotten, but I am an archmage of moderate renown—or I...I was." Sunreaver's scarlet brows lined up for a frown. "Oh, don't say a word. Can't even be civil for six seconds—and you wonder why Halduron tells everyone—"

"—I don't want to know—"

"—need to trade that stick up your ass for a—"

"—Sunreaver—"

—wait, but it's really clever, Rommath; it rhymes—"

"—Sunreaver."

"Well, Grand Magister—" He seemed to think that title sounded best when he was priming for something particularly petulant. "—perhaps that little tryst wasn't the last of its kind, but whatever the two of you shared couldn't have lasted long, by my estimate, if Kael was serving in Dalaran for some forty-odd years before I—"

Rommath didn't stop him, this time; in an uncharacteristic display of tact, Sunreaver silenced himself without any assistance.

"Go on," he said mildly. "You can say it."

The grand magister had the hide of a glacier, or so he'd been told.

"...when I filled his vacancy on the High Council," he said tightly—the words seemed to tilt, like he was shying away from each one.

They hit Rommath halfway through a timely sip of tea, and he gagged accordingly—cold and bitter. The irony was not lost on him. "That's an interesting way to spin it."

"I don't think I spun anything," Aethas told him.

"Oh, please. I'm practically dizzy." He hit the last syllable with a spark from a spell; fire, hot and hungry, lapping at the base of his cup as he warmed his tea. "But then, I guess it's considered quite rude to discuss one's personal finances in polite company. Isn't it?"

Aethas arched a brow, turning bitter quicker than a cold cup of tea. "They didn't buy me, Rommath. I didn't—they didn't—they made me an offer, and I took it!" His hands grasped at nothing: frustration manifest, impotent as ever. "You'd have done the same, if you thought it'd serve your kin."

Perhaps he would've. Perhaps he would've done worse, if only in the name of the greater good.

Perhaps he already had, but—

"That isn't the point." He didn't speak the words; they hissed past his lips like steam rolling off water brought to a—fuck, his tea. "Nor was the Kirin Tor all that interested in hearing from me."

Oh, but he'd howled.

"You think they paid me any mind?" he spat back. "There was nothing I could say to make them listen. My hands were tied."

"I thought they preferred shackles," Rommath drawled.

"Give it a rest, would you? I tried—I assure you, I tried every trick I knew, offered to line their pockets, from my own personal coffers, but they just scoffed and—yes, justlike that, Grand Magister. Wouldn't you hate to think I was doing all that I could? No, you don't want truth; you want a scapegoat. So you picked me—it's okay, everyone does—but remember that I was young too. Just a boy, bound and gagged."

Rommath narrowed his eyes at nothing in particular. "But not blind."

Aethas balked at him. "Beg your pardon?"

He'd scrawled Dalaran's emblem into the stonework of his cell at least a dozen dozen times over, and with a pebble as his paintbrush, he'd gouged out the violet eye that once watched over him. And he'd remembered when it used to make him feel so safe.

"Did you see the fireworks?" he said finally.

Sunreaver stayed silent.

This was fine; Rommath wasn't one to raise his voice. "The firework display," he repeated, "marking the nomination of a new mage to the Council of Six."

Some of Dalaran's most respected sorcerers boasted that they'd seen six or seven; Rommath had only been around for one. A single, solitary moment burned into his brain. An old memory, faded like an old oil painting, but just as clear:

He'd been a boy, sixteen and still smooth at the chin, though he shaved just to say he did. The prince was a few yards ahead, still seeing double from his last drink at some award ceremony or another, with his sash on crooked and the plaque cuddled close in the crook of his arm.

The sky was bursting like thunder, blooming lilac against black—a midwinter storm of sorts.

They'd stopped at a streetcorner to watch the whole damned thing, all sixty minutes. Not a word had passed between them, until the finale had finished, echoing all the way to the Alteracs.

The prince had smiled, wondered aloud who it could've been, and then left with a lean in his step, walking with a bit of swagger to his step. So brave, but still a boy.

Rommath didn't find out for years.

"The city was a bit ruined," Sunreaver said simply. "I didn't think they'd bother."

"Must've been quite the display. Could hear it from my cell." Booming and bursting over the sound of Kael's cries down a distant corridor, the harsh sobs of a man who had nothing. "Fifty-one fire flowers, for the Fifty-First Presiding Councilor of the Six, long may he serve."

He'd listened without a word, till the finale had finished, echoing all the way to the Alteracs—but down there, through a ton of earth and anti-arcane enchantments, its splendor sounded so dull, so muted. And then he'd bitten his bottom lip till it bled and wondered to himself who it could've been.

"Is that why you hate me?" Aethas asked.

He sounded small—feeble.

But Rommath wasn't in the mood for revelry; only madmen drank to pyrrhic victory. "Don't be childish," was all he had to say.

"But you do, don't you?" he insisted—persistent. "You loathe my presence—you've said it."

He saw his sigh in the surface of his drink, sending steam skittering with a drawn-out breath. "I 'loathe the presence' of a great many people," he said. "To assume I'm interested in anything shy of their safety and best interests seems a bit shallow, Sunreaver."

"Oh, this again? Is that where this is going?" Aethas asked. "You're going to talk about how you rescued me from the clutches of evil again, like a damsel in distress?"

"A damn something," the grand magister muttered into his drink.

"Yes, well." Aethas exhaled through a tight-lipped smile. "Forgive me for trying to make light of the situation—"

"Once upon a time, there was a very valiant grand magister—"

"Valiant?" he scoffed. "As if you took the initiative."

"Why must you always interrupt?"

"You'd have left me to rot if the order had come from anyone besides the regent lord."

Perhaps he would've. He'd like to think he'd have slept soundly, wearing a "serves you right smile" between snores. But probably not.

"I could've easily refused the regent lord."

"Oh, please!" Sunreaver breathed a bark of laughter, the first in a long time. "I don't believe that for a moment! You were on your knees the second we were safe in Silvermoon—"

"—there are those who retain some semblance of respect—"

"You hadn't even closed the portal back to Dalaran yet! I almost debated diving back through it to give you two some privacy—"

"—don't be immature—"

"My lord, you would make a fine warchief."

"Are you finished?"

"Wait, was I drooling enough? Should I try again?"

"Are you finished?"

"I'm just stating the obvious, you know," Aethas told him. "Halduron says that—"

"—Aethas Sunreaver, I swear on the shores of the Sunwell—"

"All right, all right," said Sunreaver. "I yield."

Rommath rolled his eyes. "If you're trying to invoke my ire, you're certainly off to an excellent start."

"Implying that you don't quite hate me yet?"

"You're a moron of exceptional pedigree," he said, stinging lips against his tea.

"See, because you say things like that, and it makes me feel like you do."

"There's no other explanation," the grand magister muttered, "if you still think I hate you—Light, I've spent my whole day entertaining you, Sunreaver. Have you already forgotten?"

Aethas pouted—or frowned, but the difference was damn near nothing. "You haven't seemed particularly pleased about it."

"No one's particularly pleased on the Day of the Dead," Rommath countered. "Could you possibly suppress your ego—just for a second, I implore you—and consider that I'm a bit busy to sit around hating one single individual for the better half of my day? Or even that I might have other, more pressing reasons that require me to spit acid and flame-tongued retorts besides the child who shows up periodically in my office like a puppy looking for praise and a pat on the head? Have you listened to me at all? Do you think I'm telling you any of this for fun?"

Sunreaver flinched all the way from across the room, looking askance. "W-Well, I asked—"

"And when have I ever done anything you've asked simply on the basis that you did?"

Sunreaver pondered this for a split-second. "When Lor'themar is looking?"

"You're a damned fool." The words were hoarse and tired, like he'd been turning them over in his mind for millennia—or at least a lifetime. "A coward and a fool, with no self-worth save for what anyone tells you is true."

"Excuse me…"

"It wasn't an insult," he said softly. "We're all born fools. Some learn slowly; some learn quickly; some just don't, till they find out all at once." He'd been born into the latter class, but that seemed a lifetime ago. "By the Light, Aethas Sunreaver, I beg you—listen hard. Learn from me, lest you make the same mistakes that killed Kael."

He listened; the grand magister could see it seep through the split seams of his composure—wounds that never quite healed, but Rommath was learning to look for them.

"Does...that mean you're going to continue, then?" he asked, taking a tentative step forward.

Rommath rubbed at his right temple and drained the last of his tea, ignoring the burn. "Let's see," he murmured. "I can't say what color the sky was that morning, because, ah...waking up next to Kael was a bit like waking up next to the sun itself. Never quite lost its luster—not after a week or a month, or even a year."


	15. -XII-

**'Sup. I'm alive. Surprised? Bitch, me too.**

**Content warning: unwarranted humiliation of one miserable young magister. Rommath chokes on meat. The two are unrelated. I think.**

* * *

 

_ -XII- _

Morning arrived in traditional Southlands style: birdsongs and buzzing branches, the drippings of a recent rain, the faint crash of breaker waves against the white sands just a little ways west. The clouds hugged the earth like raw wool, storm gray cracked with green branches all along the horizon, but Rommath saw only gold.

Quite actually gold.

Kael's hair was in his eyes, he realized, and his nose and his mouth and quite possibly his lungs. And then there was the distinct protrusion against the small of his back, with which he'd grown intimately familiar over the course of his stay down south.

Rommath coughed himself to consciousness like he'd just been dragged from drowning and clutched his aching sides— _ Light _ , felt like he'd been  _ stabbed _ —

"Milord?" The disembodied voice was accompanied by the butt of a halberd trying to fit between his ribs. "Milord."

Clawing at the daylight like a vampire, Rommath hid his eyes from the sun, and abruptly remembered that he had a headache—so dreadful in nature that he immediately wished to forget again.

" _ Milord _ ," the man insisted. "Sorry to wake you." He said this without meaning it, prodding at Rommath once more with the supposedly dull end of his weapon.

Rommath blinked up at the suit of blue and steel, sparing a glare at the offending polestaff. One of the royal guards that populated Austriel Hall—just a rank away from kingsguard but a world away from the palace, and every bit as bitter as one might expect. The slitted eyes spoke for his apology, or lack thereof, staring down a hawkish nose at Rommath like some indecorous or indelicate mongrel.

At which point it dawned on Rommath very abruptly that he was decorated in nothing but his delicates.

"I-It's not what it looks like," Rommath blurted.

And what was that, he wondered? Sprawled across the mottled marble of the courtyard in scarcely more than his skin with a half-dressed prince draped unconscious over his lap, still slightly damp from—what? Had they slept in the rain?

The guard's impression did not change. "The groundskeepers need you to vacate the premises for weekly maintenance."

"Nothing happened," Rommath assured him.

Well, nothing nice. He fumbled with memories of the night prior—or the morning, as it were—fragmented fractals that formed the confusing shape of their sunrise excursion. Kael's persistent insistence on keeping Rommath in a constant state of bliss—which the prince must've confused with intoxication, as he tended to do—and Rommath's inherent gracelessness had taken him on a tumble right into the depths of a deceptively deep fountain. What they were doing traipsing around the gardens during the small hours of the night was far beyond him.

"It's—It's...It's not…" They were weak and worn-out words, had lost their potency somewhere along the last dozen times he'd spoken them. "Sorry…"

"Relax, Rom," the prince assured him, on his feet and stretching with a finesse that spoke for his experience with passing out beneath balconies on the cold stone of a courtyard. "He's not going to say a word, is he?" Kael patted the man on his plated shoulder. "Dawnstrike here's got two strapping young sons—and another one on the way, hm? Hungry boys, I bet. He needs this job."

The guard, a wise man, stared ahead like he was doing his best to erase Rommath's features from his memory. "Your Grace, the groundskeepers need the courtyard clear for weekly maintenance," he repeated.

"Mmm…" Kael nodded. "Is it Saturday already?"

"Saturday?" Rommath echoed.

Panic came and went like waves as Rommath tried to discern through the haze of a hangover whether he'd been drunk for a day or—

"Feels like I slept for a week." The prince rolled his shoulders one at a time, yawning like a lynx. "Alcohol certainly makes the hourglass flow faster. Think those dragons know?"

" _ A week _ ?" Rommath echoed, except his voice cracked on the word, like his lungs were just waking up.

"It's fine," Kael told him. "I'm sure my father knows where I've been, else he'd be hosting a state-wide hunt for my head."

This was certainly nice for Kael, and Rommath tried in earnest to be happy for him—for an approximate eight seconds, leastways, before his thoughts fled to Belo'vir, and his job—if he still had one—and, quite frankly, his appearance.

"I need to go," he announced. "I-I need to bathe."

"Hah!" Kael exclaimed. "I think you already took care of that."

He'd rolled up his sleeve to the elbow to fish around the fountain's depths for Rommath's sopping shirt, which he vaguely remembered tossing to the waters under the woefully misguided logic that he'd plotted some brilliant act of vengeance. A foggy memory, like he'd pulled it straight from a dream; he  _ wished _ he'd pulled it from a dream, rather than a moment of wine-drenched frustration.

"Are my britches in there, perchance…?" Rommath asked, rubbing a furrow out of his brow.

The prince presented him with a pair of waterlogged pants and one soggy stocking. "I...don't see the other."

Rommath rearranged his features into a deadpan. "I'm never drinking with you again," he said sullenly. "If you run into my boots, do let me know, but don't trouble yourself."

Kael pouted as he wrung the water from the lonely stocking. "You don't want me to walk you home?"

"Perhaps the worst idea you've ever had." Not that the prince's grin wasn't nearly enough to make Rommath consider the day-long trek back to the Elrendar. But after a brief struggle, the hangover triumphed—decisively. "I think I've been missing long enough."

"Beats never drinking again, I'll tell you that much," Kael muttered.

Rommath snatched his clothes back, cradling them in the crook of his arm protectively. "I pity your liver, you know."

"It's a beautiful day," the prince pressed, gesturing expansively at the clouds. "A long walk would give those clothes time to dry."

Rommath gave his eyes a practiced roll—and immediately regretted it,  _ Light _ , was the sun always so bright? "What are my chances at an accurate mid-range teleport?" he asked with a grimace. "Accounting for the headache and all."

"How bad?"

Rommath considered the pulse pounding in his eyeballs. "Nauseating."

"Bet you can narrow it down to the floor, if you're lucky, but if you're trying for a specific room…ah, I'd wager you end up swapping spots with a wall." The prince shrugged. "Maybe a door, if you're fortunate."

He failed to see how that resembled any sort of fortune. Still, he had (barely) enough faith in his arcane lexicon to trust he could hit the fifth floor. Optimally, he'd reach his room without running into Belo'vir—before he was a little more presentable, leastways.

"I could lend you an outfit," Kael offered.

"Absolutely not," Rommath told him. "That bedroom's dangerous territory. Think someone slipped an aphrodisiac into the water pitcher."

"I'm offended that you think I'd need to," Kael said, frowning. "As if my intrinsic charm isn't enough."

"You're unbearable."

"Oh, please," said the prince, pulling him near. "You  _ adore _ me."

"Regretting it more with each passing moment," Rommath said through a sloppy kiss, likely meant for the deep furrow between his brows.

"Whatever." Kael dabbed at his lips between laughter. "See you around, ladylove."

Rommath grimaced as he worked himself out of Kael's grip, dropping to his knees to trace the shape of a rune on the ground. "Like I needed more reason to move with haste."

"Would you prefer mistress?" Kael tried.

The spell hiccupped as he choked on his breath—gagged, more precisely—glaring at the prince from the corner of his eye. "I'm not a girl."

"Mm, how 'bout  _ paramour _ ?" the prince purred.

The slightest twitch of a smirk broke his scowl at the edges, but it was gone in a flash of arcane, whisked back to Belo'vir's city estate, where it could flourish away from prying eyes—a notion that became far less literal once the room began to take shape around him:

Belo'vir's trophy room, filled with loads of Amani trinkets and tools, as well as a variety of preserved wildlife—the man had been quite the accomplished hunter, during his youth—including several stuffed lynxes and a number of embalmed troll heads mounted on the adjacent wall. Their glass eyes watched him through a thick coat of dust; Belo'vir had lost his taste for the room and all its contents long ago, but confessed he simply hadn't the time to dispose of it all.

Really, Rommath couldn't have hoped for a better return. Truly, fate smiled on him this day; Belo'vir hadn't set foot in the room in all the years Rommath had lived here, save one occasion—Kael's first visit, when he'd had all his trinkets polished and preened for the prince's viewing—

"And...this is Rommath," said a voice behind him—the soft, unmistakable cadence of the grand magister, "my...colleague, of sorts."

Rommath pivoted at the mention of his name, before he had a moment to process that he'd likely regret it.

Four living statues stared back at him, stiff as the stuffed lynxes along the far wall—Belo'vir with his brows drawn, Vandellor looking like he'd seen worse and wished he hadn't, Liadrin with her face hidden wholly in her hands, and a stranger at her side, his lips tense like he was waiting on someone to tell him whether he should grin or grimace.

"Ah, this is Liadrin's...guest," Belo'vir added, unflappable as ever—a requirement of any grand magister, he insisted. "We were just showing him where he'll be staying if he tries anything with her, weren't we, Vandellor?"

Vandellor cleared his throat—an effort to cough up a reply, perhaps—but it appeared unsuccessful, though still more flattering than Liadrin's knee-jerk reaction, which occasionally involved her peeking out from her fingers as if she expected him to have magically acquired clothes at some point.

Rommath stuttered slowly, tripping over something like the start of an apology, during which he managed to avoid eye contact with the entire room by concentrating very hard on the embalmed fox poised triumphantly on a pedestal behind them and envying it because it was dead.

Liadrin's guest, however—a strapping lad in polished chain and leather, with a bow slung over one sinewy shoulder that suggested he had plenty of practice with the corresponding bow—suddenly settled on his reply, letting out a peal of laughter.

Much as Rommath wanted to hate him for it, Light, it was better than silence. Even doubled over, side-aching, breathtaking laughter.

"No need to blush," he assured him, once he could stand upright. "Wonderful weather like this, it's a wonder  _ I've _ managed to keep  _ my _ tunic on this long."

(That broke Vandellor's uncomfortable gaze, solely for the sake of side-eying the young man.)

And at that, he proceeded to disrobe—well, just his cloak, shaking out the heavy fabric and offering it to Rommath.

"I—" Rommath stared at his sturdy—er, sleeveless—er,  _ shoulders _ , and continued to blush profusely, from head to toe. "Thanks."

"Glad you turned up unharmed, lad," said Belo'vir, staring at him like one might a riddle.

"Thought we'd have to send a search party for you," Vandellor added mildly. "Lia was terribly worried."

"It's good to see you safe," Liadrin said to the floor.

And all Rommath had to contribute was one dry, octave-too-high, " _ Um _ ."

"Wait, ah, I wasn't supposed to bow, was I?" Liadrin's "friend" asked. "Did you say he was in with the prince, or was that someone—"

"Not what I said," Liadrin interrupted.

Rommath didn't want to know.

"Dreadfully sorry," he said. "Haven't been up north since I was a little boy." He scratched the back of his head in a generous showcase of his triceps, which— _ Rommath _ ,  _ stop _ ,  _ Light _ . "Ah, but where are my manners? Lieutenant Lor'themar Theron, at your service."

Merciful Light, at least he was a ranger, though. He probably hadn't even noticed the, ah, wardrobe malfunction—the Farstriders trained naked, or so Rommath had heard. Not that he'd ever been interested in pursuing the validity of the rumor. And not that he was now.  _ Get it together, Rommath _ .

Pulling the cloak tighter around his shoulders, he gave them each a smile that was every ounce as taut, and hoped that Lieutenant Theron would remember it every time he drew his bowstring. "The pleasure is mine," he managed. "If you'll excuse me—"

He didn't wait around for a reply; nearly tripped over the cloak on his way up the stairs, just to add a layer of insult to his injured pride, but he arrived at his room more or less unscathed, if a little sick with embarrassment. The briefest glance at his reflection as he passed the standing mirror did little to help his nausea, though he was reminded of the bath he'd promised himself—years ago, it seemed.

A nice hot soak wouldn't heal his wounded self-esteem, but he could straighten his hair at the least, and the hot water would do well to hide any tears on the off-chance that he— _ oh, you're such a little boy _ —

Drawing his bath and a few steadying breaths to match, he hung the cloak delicately opposite his overcoats, far enough to avoid contamination by the stench of grass that clung to the fabric, and swiped some books from the column stacked neatly by his desk. Belo'vir had not picked up his slack, it seemed, judging by the week's worth of unapproved research arranged by school across the surface of his table.

Least he'd have plenty to keep his thoughts occupied while his pride was still smarting. Some fledgling author was up first—an upstart with a passion for runes and glyphs, it would seem. No one of notable name, but the inside cover brandished an impressive list of names signing off their approval for the test's publication—Starion, Theledris, Runewarder, Valathir—

Rommath nearly gave the manuscript a bath of its own, startled stiff.

Of all the research he read, the school of arcane always had the scarcest supply. Rommath knew why; the high minister was a brutal editor, impossible to please by all accounts, including his son's.

But every once in a while, there were one or two that made it through, their flyleaves littered with noble names, always signed along the bottom margin with an ' _ E. Falor'dore _ ,' in the flourish of the high minister's own handwriting. The name looked bare without its titles, but imposing nevertheless, as if it expected its audience to know all that it encompassed anyhow.

Usually, Rommath stamped these with a tentative seal of approval and handed it off to Belo'vir without even cracking the cover. He'd confessed this to the grand magister, during a moment of weakness, but Belo'vir had just smiled and admitted that, ofttimes, he did the same. This time, Rommath tossed it across the room, spat a few swears as it hit the headrest and landed on his bed with a thump, and kneaded hard at the persistent ache behind his eyes. His father's vaunted studies could wait—he'd save them for another day, when he had the patience to spend on him.

He almost laughed at the irony—turning tables and all that proverbial nonsense—and spent the rest of his bath relaxing. According to Rommath, this included: recalling all his past mistakes and misgivings in chronological order in an attempt to make the debacle downstairs seem less humiliating, which proved ineffective only a couple years into his apprenticeship, and a lot of brushing—or tearing—at his knotted hair, yanking at the knots till they surrendered. He had every intention of going back to torture his memory some more once he'd conquered his hair, but instead chose to slip in and out of consciousness until he woke up acutely aware that the water was  _ frigid _ . So he sighed and scrubbed himself till his skin ached and called it an overall success; with his self-loathing sufficiently restored and his fingers resembling an assortment of dried fruit, he felt truly clean.

Rommath was still in the process of drying his hair when three knocks at the door interrupted him mid-swear—Belo'vir's signature, Rommath recognized it immediately.

"Are you decent?" came the grand magister's voice from the other side. Then, hesitation: "More or less clothed than when we last spoke?"

He answered the door dressed in a towel, tied tight around his waist, with bathwater still dripping from the tip of his nose.

The grand magister's gaze never strayed past Rommath's chin, but he couldn't be sure if he was ignoring his state of undress or the thin tracery of scars strewn haphazardly down his sides. "This is just who you are now, is it?"

"I was hoping you'd be less likely to fire me if I wasn't wearing anything," he said with a sniffle.

"Fire you?" Belo'vir offered him a crystal platter, fogged with steam that obscured its shimmer. "Thought I'd bring your plate up—I...figured you wouldn't be joining us at dinner after…"

_ Bless Belo'vir, he knows me so well _ .

"And I—" The grand magister gave a momentary pause, uncharacteristically tongue-tied. "Well, I  _ did _ want to catch you alone, just to...you know, catch up. Not that—I don't care where you were, of course, and personally don't perceive it as any of my business. As long as you continue to exceed my expectations, you may do and dress—or don't—as you will. It's just...not—disappearing for days without any indication or prior warning—"

Rommath flinched, profuse apologies flying to the tip of his tongue, turning his lips to a levee, ready to burst—and he squeezed his eyes shut tight till he saw spots, bright bursts of light that blotted out Belo'vir's features against the backs of his eyelids before they could crumple under disappointment.

"—it's just not like you, lad—"

"I'm so sorry," he said quickly, the words rushing out. "I know, I know, I—I promise I—it won't happen again, I swear it, I—"

"—what? Rommath, be still, would you?" The order was not stern, but Belo'vir's smile stayed taut, twitching. "I was simply...concerned, I suppose—I was worried sick, boy. I thought you'd—well, nevermind that. Are you all right? Were you mugged?"

Rommath blinked—still, just as Belo'vir had commanded. "N-No—"

"You look positively haggard."

He rubbed self-consciously at his jaw, fuzzy with a finish of fine stubble. "No, I just...lost track of time. I, ah…"

He didn't think he ought to divulge any more details.

"I won't pry, of course," said Belo'vir. "It's—it's not my business—" His eyes glistened faintly, an indistinguishable shimmer that Rommath couldn't quite place. "Youth dies without freedom the way plants wither without sun. I know. I just—I…"

"I was just visiting a friend," Rommath said, speaking gently. "I lost track of time, that's all. I didn't mean to—to frighten anyone…"

"You—what?" Belo'vir's lips parted, a smile spreading—slowly—across his features to take the shape of a knowing grin. "Ah,  _ ah _ —I see, I see, I—Light, that's a relief, Rommath, you've got no idea. Your father had me worried."

Rommath's brow quivered. "My—the...the high minister was here?"

"No," said Belo'vir, as if Rommath had asked which way the sun rose. "No, no—I stopped by, while I was searching for you."

He fought the urge to cough up another apology. "That sounds...extraordinarily uncomfortable."

"It was fine," the grand magister assured him. "We had plenty of catching up to do. I'd meant to speak to him anyhow...though I'd planned to send a letter. It's no matter." He looked eager to change the subject. "I hope your vacation wasn't terribly boring, without a knee-high supply of vapid research to pore over."

"I kept busy," Rommath told him. It wasn't a lie.

"Good, good." The grand magister nodded. "I know how you get when you don't have something to read."

"I did some studying," he said, chewing at his lip.  _ Not a lie _ . "K—ah, friend of mine helped me test a few theories I'd been working on—"

" _ Theories _ ?" Belo'vir was beaming. "I'd love to see them, if you don't—"

" _ No _ ," Rommath exclaimed. "No, you don't, ah—they didn't turn out...how I expected…"

"Well, that's part of the process," Belo'vir assured him. "You know, just because your hypothesis is incorrect doesn't mean you didn't discover anything. Why, when I was about your age—"

"Maybe another time," Rommath suggested. "Can't do it without him—it's a dreadfully complicated affair, and he's just so busy all the time—"

"I'm sure I could stand in, if you need an extra pair of hands—"

"No, ah, that's probably—he might feel excluded," he told him. "Magisters and their fragile egos, y'know."

"I could send a summons, if you'd like!" Belo'vir proposed. "It's an honor to be contacted directly by the grand magister—you know I don't like to pull rank, but for you, lad—"

"That's—okay, all right. We'll do that. Definitely." Rommath nodded enthusiastically. "Just let me know when you—"

"Ah, but...you know what? I think my stationery is still in the process of being updated at the moment—I've been complaining about the letterhead for  _ years _ and I finally managed to get the rest of the Convocation to sign off on it—your father was the last one, as a matter of fact."

Rommath was not surprised.

"But as soon as that disaster is all cleared up!" Belo'vir said, grinning. "Just promise me it's not arcane."

"It's not arcane," Rommath told him.

"Thank the Light," said Belo'vir. "I swear by the Sunwell's shores, I've never been more proud."

Rommath's smile was soft around the edges, joined by a bashful glance at the floor.

The only circumstance that could possibly stifle the swell in his chest was the realization that he would actually need to come up with some original theories now, and not the small-scale theorems and theses he'd done in Dalaran—this was Silvermoon, the home of the magi.

He'd need a miracle, some point in the relatively near future. But if the notion itself was enough for Belo'vir, it was enough for him.

He was happy.

For a moment, the grand magister stayed silent, letting his smile speak for him—and Light, was it loud. "I didn't mean to keep you," he said quietly, like a conclusion.

Rommath wished he wouldn't apologize. It made the warmth in his words seem…wrong, somehow. Hollow.

"Your dinner's bound to be cold by now," he went on, laughing nervously.

Rommath frowned and swatted at the comment with his free hand. Peeking at the platter beneath the cover, he was greeted promptly by the pleasant aroma of fresh-baked bread and spiced stew. Made simple, in the standard southern style, no doubt to Lieutenant Lor'themar's liking, but lovingly prepared without the cabbage and fennel—he didn't want to know if Belo'vir had ladeled meticulously around it or concocted a separate stew for him altogether.

"Ah, and…" Belo'vir stalled as he turned, hesitating with his eyes on the opposite wall. "Rommath?"

"Grand Magister?"

Belo'vir bristled at the title, his back to Rommath, but he didn't move. "Could I borrow your letter opener?"

Rommath fished the blade from his pocket and handed it over without a word.

"Thanks, lad," he said, his smile tight along the seams. "Ah, and don't tell Liadrin I gave you two tarts. You know how she is with her sweets."

He disappeared in a burst of light and thin smoke like an extinguished star, vanishing right as Rommath realized that he'd forgotten a knife for his meat.

_ Oh _ .

He seated himself silently at his desk and did his best to pull apart his pheasant with a fork.

"If you were any younger, bet he'd adopt you."

" _ Kael'thas _ !" Rommath nearly choked on his meat. "What the hell? How'd—how—"

The prince glanced at the window, its curtains still swaying from his entry. " _ Please _ ." He rolled his eyes. "When my mother was ill, they kept her up on the top floor, wouldn't let anyone near her—had guards posted out her room and everything—was twice the climb, and I was half the size."

Rommath was suddenly reminded of a small boy at the foot of Telestra's tower, shaking when he'd confessed that he'd seen a corpse before. But when he spoke again, the boy was gone, replaced by royal regalia and a tone to match.

"Maybe then everyone might be less quick to call you his footstool."

"Who says that?"

"Everyone." Kael waved him off. "You're a choice pick for his successor."

Rommath frowned, startled. "I'd decline." He sounded surer than he was, only because he was sure it was what Kael wanted to hear. "Wouldn't suit me."

"It's miserable work," Kael assured him.

He spared a sidelong glance at the stack of loosely bound tomes piled upon his desk, feathered with scraps of notes and addenda. "Sure, I guess." But Belo'vir smiled, genuine and often. Shrugging, he shifted his stare back to Kael. "So, ah, what can I do for you?"

"Dressed like that?" Kael looked him up and down with mock bedroom eyes. "Baby, you can do whatever you'd like."

Rommath tied his towel tighter around his waist. "I needed a bath."

"So did I," said Kael, "and as you can see, I'm now fully clothed. And before you say a word, I plan on remaining this way for some time, so don't bother begging—"

"Why are you here?" Rommath insisted.

"...which brings me to my point," Kael said. "You're going to need an outfit. Something that's not made of linen."

He sipped at a spoonful of stew. "Am I going somewhere?"

" _ We _ ," Kael amended.

"I will not go anywhere until I shave," Rommath told him, "and you're on house arrest."

"Which...brings me to my  _ nex _ t point," said the prince, "Father was not terribly pleased with my supposed disappearing act—he actually promoted  _ more _ kingsguard just to babysit me—so we're going to need to get back to the palace before they start to wonder if I drowned in the bathtub."

"The palace?" The smile vanished posthaste, leaving behind only wide eyes and pale lips. "N-No, I can't—we can't be seen together. Someone'll—people will talk, Kael, rumors spread like _ infection _ in this city—"

"Quit that." Kael caught him by the wrist before he was on his feet and fretting. "They've said worse."

"What?" he said, like a gasp. "Like  _ what _ ?"

"Nevermind that," said the prince. "Come now, aren't you the least bit curious to see what your reputation can withstand?"

" _ No _ ?"

He grinned like the demons and the devils in dark tomes in Dalaran's southern library. "Bet we could get your father rolling in his grave."

"He's not dead yet," Rommath exclaimed.

"Pity."

"Well," he added, "still my father."

"Well," Kael countered, "not really."

Rommath's scowl could've spoiled dairy. The prince's hands, however, were gentle, his touch apologetic as he traced his fingertips over the furrow between Rommath's brows, bringing his pulse to a rise and his gaze to the ground, askance.

" _ Rom _ …" Half a name had never seemed so sweet, drawn out into a purr that hummed in the back of his throat, a sound like distant thunder—comforting. "My, you really do need a shave." The prince patted him softly—no less abruptly—on the crest of his cheek as he stood upright, shoulders set. "Where's your razor?"

He was rifling through the drawers of the wardrobe before Rommath could even answer. "Not in there."

"That's good…? Sounds like a hazard." He made a dismissive gesture as he moved onto the drawer. "I'm trying to find you an outfit."

"I—oh, I just…thought—"

"Do you need help shaving…?" Kael asked, pausing to throw a frown over his shoulder.

"Of course not." Rommath harrumphed, heading for the washroom. "I can do it myself."

"Be quick about it then," the prince insisted. "If you're not done by the time I've found something suitable for the courts, I'll take you to meet my father with a five o'clock shadow, and I'll even tell him it took you six days to grow that pithy peach fuzz."

Rommath assessed his stubble in the mirror and, finding Kael to be correct, lathered up his cheeks till he couldn't see his scowl. "It never really came in properly," he confessed, flicking the blade open. "I just started shaving when you did."

"I'm aware," Kael said. His grin was audible, even from the adjoining room.

Rommath paused. "Are you?"

"Don't sound so surprised," he called. "You 'forgot how to do it' at least every other day for the first fortnight just so I'd have to show you again."

Rommath blushed, freshly visible in three streaks down his right cheek. "That's...embarrassing."

"Please. I had no business shaving at fifteen—I could count the hairs on my chin with one hand, most days. Finer than silkthread, too."

He appeared in the doorway toting an impossibly tight top, whose lace trim barely reached Rommath's waist, in spite of the neckline, which plunged like a bundle of bricks—though he'd have never divulged how he came to know this, not willingly.

"If you're going to be embarrassed about anything—"

Rommath raised the straight razor threateningly. "Put that back."

"Not till I know when you bought these," said Kael, suddenly stern. "And more importantly, for  _ whom _ ?"

Rommath's expression tightened as he drew the blade down his jaw, but he trusted Kael could still see his scowl. "I did  _ not _ buy them."

"A gift?" asked the prince, astonished.

"From Astalor," said Rommath, lips taut as he started on his chin. "A gag gift—I hope. Felt rude to throw them away."

"Well...I, for one, love them." Kael hitched up the hem of his robes, as if considering how it would look with his pants. "But on the off-chance that we run into my father, perhaps it wouldn't be the best...first impression…"

Rommath winced. "I'd like to avoid that."

"Oh, believe me," Kael assured him, "we will do  _ everything _ in our power to avoid a run-in with my father tonight. Besides, violet isn't…" He made a vague gesture at Rommath, half-shaved and scowling. "... _ you _ ."

A couple haphazard swipes from a glinting razorblade had Kael retreating back to the wardrobe in seconds, in search of something "befitting a prince's arm-candy," though Rommath hoped he'd misheard, only to reemerge when his 'arm-candy' was hissing through the sting of aftershave, presenting him with a full outfit, complete with gold and gems.

"Didn't know I still had that necklace," Rommath said.

"It'll look nice with those priest bead things," Kael told him, gesturing vaguely to the chain of rosewood hanging from his neck. "You like the outfit all right?"

"Ah," said Rommath, lifting the robes to admire them. "Good pick, Your G—there aren't...where are...what am I supposed to wear under my pants…?"

Kael gave him a nonchalant shrug. "Whoops."

"And...you thought I wouldn't notice?"

"I  _ thought _ you'd take the hint," said the prince.

"I should stop you right there," Rommath told him—and he did stop, for at least seven seconds, struggling to speak the hardest words he'd spoken yet: "I can't stay with you. Not tonight."

Kael, unconvinced, collapsed dramatically against Rommath's bed; of course, he couldn't make this easy.

"I've got an infinite amount of work to catch up on," he explained, working his way through unreasonably sheer undershirt. "And I already gave Belo'vir quite a fright."

The prince grumbled as he pulled a book out from under his head, inspected the cover, and immediately held it away from himself between thumb and forefinger, as if it were an insect. "Ew. Your father signed this one."

"You'd like it," said Rommath to the most immature man ever to make the Council of Six. "It's, ah, transposing runes in glyphs, or—I don't know, something like that."

Kael grunted his reply as he thumbed through the pages. "Perhaps," he conceded. "Well, why don't you gather up the rest? Bring them with, at least what you can carry."

"Are they that entertaining?" asked Rommath, shaking his way into the sleeves of his robes.

"More entertaining than you when you're stressing," Kael said. "And since you've sworn off drinking, I suppose I'm out of reliable ways to make you forget you're the grand magister's aide."

"I think I've proven myself more than capable of shirking responsibility," Rommath assured him.

"Please!" said the prince, like he was holding back laughter. "You do the thing where your eyes glaze over, but if one were to look  _ really _ hard, they could see a whole reel of responsibilities running through your brain on repeat, like you're counting through a checklist of all the things you should be doing and all the places you should be besides right in front of me." He let his eyes go dull like he'd taken blunt trauma to the back of the head, mimicking Rommath with undeniable accuracy. "And while I'd love to spoil you, I get the sense that the gesture will go far more appreciated when you're not drunk on dread."

"Spoken with the nonchalance of someone who's never been stressed in his life," Rommath muttered.

Kael clutched at his chest as though he'd found a dagger in it. "Spitting fire now, are we? Usually that comes after 'complete emotional shutdown,' right ahead of 'inevitable resurgence of childhood misfortunes.' Never you mind, my dear—with me at your side, we'll wade through all this work in an hour, tops."

"I'll hold you to that," said Rommath, straightening his clothes with a sigh.

"Good," said the prince. "Why else would I make a promise like that?" He paused a moment to preen: "I'll have you know, I'm somewhat of a celebrated sorcerer. Graduated ahead of my class."

"Out of two," Rommath said flatly.

"Ah, but don't discredit that other boy," said Kael with a smirk. "He gave me quite the competition."

Rommath rolled his eyes. "I'm sure he'd disagree."

"Of course he would." Kael scoffed as he handed Rommath a tower of tomes stacked three feet tall. "While he excelled at a great many subjects, the list didn't extend past academics, and unfortunately, he was never all that good at accepting compliments. But I'm going to fix that, sooner or later—just you wait—hurry, now. We need to blow through all this before the roses start to wilt."

"Roses?"

"Ah, I've said too much already!" Kael cried. "Come, take my hand—"

"I'm perfectly capable of teleporting myself," said Rommath, past thousands of pages of parchment.

"Yes, well, that's a lot less storybook." Kael motioned him closer. "Now, entwine your fingers with mine, fair lover, and we shall escape this foul tower on the winds of the Nether! Together, hand-in-hand, the prince and his lovely princess—"

"—that's worse than ladylove."

"You're impossible to please."

Rommath shrugged. "I didn't mind paramour."

"Of course you didn't, you pretentious prick."

"Oh, that's my favorite by far."

"Just take my fucking hand—the ice sculptures are going to be puddles by the time w—"

" _ Ice sculptures _ ?"

"Absolutely. And exquisitely crafted, at that," Kael told him. "Meaning I made them myself."

Rommath peered over his books just to balk at him.

"Um, I'm sorry," said Kael, tapping thoughtfully at his chin, "did I forget to mention that I'm  _ highly _ trained in the art of overindulgence? I thought it was, I don't know, common knowledge."

"I'm well aware," Rommath said, "I just thought the last—what,  _ week _ ?—would be enough to get it out of your system."

"All right, I see," said the prince with a nod. "Thanks to your persistent inability to be pleased by anything ever, you've been demoted back to princess."

"I wasn't complaining," he said quickly.

"Mm, good," said Kael, suddenly close, "because I  _ will _ be indulging you to the fullest extent of my capabilities—and I've been told I'm a  _ very _ capable young man."

He should've shuddered, that hot breath in his ear, but his shoulders wouldn't stiffen and his spine wouldn't straighten and he just...stayed slack, leaning his weight into the crook of Kael's arm. At ease. "Is that so?" he asked, softly—damn near casually.

"I swear it," said Kael, almost solemn, save for his smirk. "Got to make sure to spoil you so sweet that you've no choice but to forgive me when I fuck you up beyond all recognition, hm?"

The flash that took them away from there was bright, and he was blinded, so that he could only make out the faultlines along Kael's smile in the cold illuminating light of retrospect.


End file.
